


Scheherazade

by oblivioluna



Category: Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic), Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassins! Lauren and Kieran, Childhood Friends to Forbidden Lovers, Conspiracies and Mysteries, F/M, Kieran "I Deny And Repress All Emotions" White, Kieran no, Kym "I'm Too Smart For This" Ladell, Lauren "I Punch My Feelings Out" Sinclair, Lauren why?, NOW EVERYONE KNOWS OBLIVIOLUNA IS A SUCKER FOR HURT/COMFORT, Official Home of the Murder Babies TM, The Phantom Scythe Academy AU I Always Wanted, This Is Actually Really Soft Despite What You Think, William "I'm Tired And A Simp" Hawkes, redemption arcs everywhere, the author claims all your tears at this point, written in FIERCE defiance of the ever-present cynical narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 154,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oblivioluna/pseuds/oblivioluna
Summary: November 13th, XX17. Let’s say, for once, the story doesn’t go the way it should.Let’s say that for once, a girl chasing after a boy with flowers in her hair didn’t see what he left behind. Let’s say that instead of being granted the mercy of crying her heart out in front of a fire, she was swept up in the shadows of the city too soon to even allow for a single tear.Let’s say that instead of fighting for those she loved - after all, they were all gone - she fought for revenge, the only thing she had left, with the hilt of a sword in her hands instead of a trigger.Let’s say she met another boy with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen in her life, and took his hand instead.(Or: We all fall eventually, the wayward ones. But what is broken can be healed, and what is lost will be found.)
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Dylan Rosenthal (past), Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 285
Kudos: 344





	1. storm

She is twelve years old when she loses her innocence.

“Dylan, Dylan!” Lauren Sinclair yelps in joy, twirling around in a dress the color of melted butter on bread, a warm summer evening, shards of sunlight radiating out through the peeking eyes of blinds. And the white-haired boy next to her gives her a dashing smile, and her heart swells higher, higher, until she is close to bursting with the unparalleled joy of being with him, among the temporary garden perched where they stand. “Tell me about the flowers!”

“Again? You really like flowers, don’t you?” he mouths through a stand of wheat in his mouth. The boy is all gangly innocence, around her age, not yet tampered by life’s cruelties: so he is all arrogance. Beckons her next to him: “Alright, come here.”

She does, kneeling next to him. “These are freesias,” she hears him say. “They symbolise trust and purity.”

_Like what I have with you._ Lauren blinks at him. “Hey, Dylan?”

“Hm?” The wheat in his mouth twitches upwards. 

“You know a lot about flowers. Do you want to be a gardener like your dad?” She continues to stare at him as he caresses his chin, deep in thought.

“...I like flowers,” he says after a moment’s hesitation, “but I want to become a doctor.”

“Ha, a giant klutz like you?!” she teases, giggling into her palm as he gapes, open-mouthed with shock as she continues laughing. “You’ll kill more patients than you’ll save.”

“Watch me!” he says abruptly, standing up, swinging the wheat, now in his hands, like some play sword. And Lauren does watch him, watches him cock a hand to his face in determination, grin that signature grin of his once more. “I’ll become the best doctor this city’s ever seen!”

They both don’t notice the bucket of flowers skidding to the side until it’s too late. When Lauren does, she erupts in that mighty laughter of hers again, bringing the world to a standstill. She notices him raging at her in false humor, even as the daisies below them shiver in the wind, joyous pink and lovely lavender and their signature pure white.

She doesn’t notice the way he looks at her, even then - how can she, for she is only a child? And so because she is a child, and he is a child, and it is impossible for the both of them to be anything but that, in that moment in time, they run. Run like the wind, later on, outside the streets they know, and wound themselves, and lie. Lie where a boy lies his love on a girl’s head, lying, lying, lying all the while because he knows that he cannot give up that secret part of him. A secret that has not become malicious like human lies are so often, no, a lie borne out of innocence. Innocence - rare as a flower in the mountains. 

So of course that innocence dies when the storm comes, not from a mountain, but from a bomb.

Dylan Rosenthal’s no flower.

Lauren Sinclair’s no girl after the fire.

_Run, run!_

And she runs. Runs, because that’s the only thing she has left, besides the remnants of a hope long gone. Slipping away from her like flower petals in the wind, burnt to ash in the fire. Her hands slam open the doors to the train station, the sign reading _Allendale_ nearly crashing down onto her head, and coming to a head with numerous others streaming out of the bombing. 

There is nothing but red here. 

_He’s gone - the king - and Mr. Rosenthal - no, he can’t be gone, he can’t, I haven’t seen him yet, he was going to come, he should’ve come -_

He doesn’t come. She stumbles through the wreckage. The numbness veils everything happening before her eyes, covers her ears like a parent. Protects her. Perhaps Dylan, if he’d known what he was talking about, would’ve called something like this _a trauma reaction._

But he’s gone, after all.

She knows this the second she sees his newsboy cap lying there on the cobblestones, soot nudging at the edges of the cap. 

Lauren stands there, and stares. Stares and stares, but the tears don’t come out.

If she’d been listening, amongst all the fire, she would’ve heard the faint screech of tires, of yelling. But she doesn’t, and tunes out the voices of two men focusing in on her, the apex of a camera, as she clutches at her stomach, bile rising in her throat.

“Dylan,” she chokes out. _“Dylan?”_

_“Take her,”_ a shadowy figure snarls. _“I don’t have time for this, Goodfellow.”_

_“But - sir, she’s not on the list--”_

_“She’s young and hale, and most importantly - oh, for crying out loud, she’s Sinclair’s daughter! Imagine how proud the Apostles, much less the Leader, would be with her!”_

_“Sir, I don’t know if I should take her. He may be furious with us if we do. There are already three candidates in our ranks. In due time, we don’t need another.”_

_“Listen closely.”_ The rustle of fabric, the cocking of a gun. _“She is_ ours. _Do you understand who she is?! With her, we can take out those insurgents once and for all. Their weapon, now ours. She will be a useful addition in our ranks.”_

_“Surely you don’t mean…”_

_“Yes, I do. Now_ take _her.”_

_“Dylan,”_ Lauren chokes out, and feels the press of tears apply pressure on her cheeks. 

The heat in her core quickly morphs into ice as a hand snakes around her waist and mouth, pressing a sweet-smelling fabric onto her lips, on her nose. Lauren shrieks through the cloth, sobbing as she fights tooth and nail, drawing heavy grunts from the adult man carrying her in his arms, for a second, almost losing her, as she claws at his hands, drawing blood.

_Mom, Dad, anyone, Dylan, please, Dylan--_

“Help!” she shrieks through the cloth, her vision fast fading. “Help, anyone, please…”

“Quiet, girl,” the man snarls, and her vision swirls in a haze of color before everything goes black.

And before it all does, one last tear slips down her cheek.

_Come back for me,_ she thinks hopelessly. _Please come back for me._

No one does.

  
  


____

  
  


“Her vitals are fine,” drones the doctor. She doesn’t register the woman hovering above her as a doctor at first, just a blurry set of eyes looking down at her through wire frames. The lights are far too bright. “She’ll be in shock for a while, so I would recommend you introduce her to the compound slowly. Of course, I highly doubt you will induct her...gradually, which is what she needs. Do not isolate her; she has suffered an intense traumatic reaction, alongside slight blunt force to the legs from where she was struggling. And do not withhold information.”

“Will do, Doc,” sneers another male voice, slightly weasel-like. “She’s not a candidate, so rest assured we won’t be info-dumping anything anytime soon. The Leader isn’t happy about this, but he isn’t necessarily displeased either.”

“She’s a child,” the doctor retorts. “Like the other three. If you just--”

Lauren gasps as she regains full consciousness, choking on air. But nothing comes out as she scrambles to sit up on the examiner’s bed, hands gripping onto the sheets. The room is white, with bare walls and a mirror in front of her. Cabinets of medicine and jars of remedies beside the doctor standing next to her, in ivory and smelling like jasmine flowers.

The man’s mouth twitches upwards. He’s standing in the doorway, a loose coat over his slender figure, about middle-age, gray hairs poking through brown. 

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

She bursts into tears.

“Miss Sinclair,” the doctor starts, but Lauren ignores her, cradling her face in her hands.

“Where am I?” the sobs. “Where have you taken me, you monsters?! I - I--”

“What I said about shock,” the doctor says the man’s way, shooting him a wicked glare. But when she approaches Lauren, the strands of red poking out of her bun frame her face gently, and she strokes a hand over the girl’s back soothingly. She resembles her mother, Lauren realizes, and cries even harder.

“Miss Sinclair, you’re going to be alright. We’re going to take care of you. You’re not going to be harmed. You need time to rest and heal, and when you are ready, we will explain why you have been brought to the Foxglove Compound.”

“I don’t care,” she snaps, visibly stunning the doctor for a second. “I don’t _care!_ I want out of here _now!_ ”

“What a whiner, this one,” remarks the man. “I’ve seen nine-year-olds more composed than this.”

“You kidnapped her,” barks the doctor.

“We’re not angels, Dr. Taylor,” he hisses. “Goodfellow’s gone in hiding just to spare her and the other candidate - Hawthorne. If she wants to leave, we’ll arrange for her silence. We don’t need a crybaby.”

Rage surges in her heart, and before the woman can hold her back, Lauren leaps at the man, with no plan whatsoever, fists beating against his chest, shoving him back, nothing but the sound of her blood in her ears, a melody with no sound. Hands grapple at her waist, and it is only due to the doctor’s soothing voice and hand on her chin that she lets go of her target, who rubs at his jaw, hissing with a wickedness in his eyes.

“It’s alright,” she whispers in Lauren’s ear. “It’s alright, dearest. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Maybe she’s got more potential than I thought,” he admits, and her blood runs cold as he doesn’t face her with anger, but what could only be called darkly veiled _pride._ “I’ll talk to Messenger VI. He’ll relay a message to the Leader. We’ll see if there’s a place for her yet.”

_Messengers. The Leader._

She doesn’t cry as Dr. Taylor puts her back on the bed. 

_The Phantom Scythe._

_Mother and Father warned me about straying from the outbursts in the lower districts, where calls against the monarchy were no longer peaceful, but violent, and no longer for justice, but for power._

“Would you like to—”

“Tell me why I’m here. All of it,” she snaps, shaking. Lauren ignores the stray tear down her cheek. Looks like she’s still got tears in her after all. She slumps back, exhausted, picking at the soot-covered yellow of her dress. Now it is yellow like the splatter of bile on a floor, like crushed amber in a tree. Dark. “I don’t care. I want to know _why._ ”

She inhales. 

And obeys.

“Miss Sinclair, you were chosen by the Phantom Scythe. A rebellion group against the monarchy.” _An anarchist group against the city._ “They need those like you to carry out their future plans. You will not be harmed while you are here, only trained.” _You have no choice._ “Within the Foxglove Compound, we are safe from Ardhalis’s view. You may not see your family members in person, but you will still be granted free reign of the city after you are deemed worthy. Secrecy is of the utmost importance. You won’t be alone, however, as you’ll meet the other candidates in due time.” _You must hide._ “Because of your status in society, the upper echelons of the Scythe think you will be a good fit for their program. I understand that you are afraid and scared for your life, but trust that all will come to light soon. This world is not as you think it to be.” _You were taught lies._ “And most importantly…” The doctor inhales sharply. “Despite what Mr. Flemmings said earlier, you cannot leave.” 

_You cannot leave._

“I understand,” she forces out. “I understand.”

Taylor keeps looking at her like a wounded animal. She hates it. She hates all of it.

“Dearest—”

“Stop it.” She covers her ears with her hands. “I just want it to stop,” she whispers.

She nods. As if she understands. Taylor leaves the room for a second - Lauren doesn’t bother to crane her neck to view the compound hallways outside - and comes back soon with a hot mug of something sweet-smelling in it. A pill rests in her other hand.

“For the shock.” She holds it up. “You must be cold—”

Lauren yanks the pill out of her hand and swallows it dry, alongside the liquid, which burns her throat and makes her drowsy the second she’s gulped it all down. Dr. Taylor rests the empty cup on the table next to her, covering her lower body with a blanket that wasn’t there before.

“Sleep,” says the doctor, and Lauren is far too tired to refuse. 

The world is swallowed up in a haze of black once more.

____

  
  


When she wakes, a calendar stares back at her. 

An _X_ on _November 14th._

It’s been two days. Two days since she passed out. _Two days._ The blanket rests warm and heavy on her body. Someone’s put a pillow on the examination bed, and when Lauren swings her feet off the table, she feels the rush of the cold, artificial air against the skin poking out of her ripped white leggings. Gray leggings, really, from all the smoke. But a change of clothes rests on the table side, and Lauren struggles to swing off the bed - given her short stature - and hobbles over to the chair.

Black pants, black blouse. They’ve been tailored to her size, somehow. 

The door unlocks with a click, and Taylor pokes her head in, smiling softly.

“Evening, Miss Sinclair. You’re walking now, I see.”

“I feel a bit better,” she mutters, scratching her head. “Could - I - you know—” she stutters, pointing at the clothes. The doctor laughs softly, smiling.

“Of course. But don’t forget to call me back in. I’ll be right back. We’ll do your daily checkup, and I’ll walk you around the compound.”

Before she can protest, the door clicks shut. Lauren glances down at her dress, feeling for the ribbon in her hair. It’s slid down, and is almost out of her hair.

With a swift and sudden viciousness that arises at the sight of what she wore to Allendale, Lauren tosses off her dress and ribbon, stripping off her leggings and hurling them at the wall. She doesn’t bother looking at the mirror until she’s done pulling the shirt and pants on, and only then does she storm over and glance at the girl in the glass. 

She doesn’t recognize her. Who looks back has bags under her eyes, and has a long mane of hair down to her shoulders, past it even, all tangled and sticking out everywhere. The outfit is baggy, cinching at the waist - the pants are loose, and so are the puffed ends of the sleeves of the blouse. Like training gear.

No, scratch that, it _is_ training gear.

She sighs. 

“You’re going to be stuck here,” she says, pointing at her reflection. “Forever. _Forever._ ” She sucks in a breath as the tears rise. _“Stop it.”_

Lauren exhales. The tears slip away. Her eyes focus on the ribbon on the bed, gleaming gold. A pin. Her eyes dart to the door. Then to the ribbon again. 

If she’s going to be here forever, to _hell_ with the rules. 

Lauren tears the ribbon from its pin and cradles it in her hands, grunting as she straightens it out into a gold needle of sorts. The lock shudders as she toys with it, and she sticks her tongue out as she jiggles it harder. But to no avail, the lock stays.

She has half a mind to ram her body against it. But then Taylor would catch her with half her bones broken. Pinching the ends of the pin, she tries again, and after about a minute or so, is rewarded with a _click,_ drawing a content squeal from her lips. 

Her hands wrap around the doorknob as she opens the door a crack, making sure not to make any noise. No one is here, so she opens the door completely—

And proceeds to ram it straight into the face of a fourteen-year-old boy.

_“Ow!”_

Lauren covers her mouth as he stumbles back onto the floor, clutching at his face. Red lines his forehead in the imprint of a knob. _Oh, snap._

But when he releases his hand, the boy’s sour expression fades into one of wonderment. Lauren holds back a squeak in the back of her throat as he stands to his full height - he’s _tall,_ about four or five inches above her, with warm skin that glows in the golden light and lovely blue eyes. His black hair is neatly combed back, short strands tickling at the nape of his neck, and he’s dressed in simple slacks and a button-up shirt. 

“You’re the new candidate, aren’t you?” he asks, hands in his pockets. 

“Were you waiting for me?!” she demands, frowning deeply. “And aren’t _you_ a candidate?”

“I was just curious,” he says, smiling with all his teeth. “There were rumors about a special candidate.”

“I’m not a candidate,” she hisses, quelling her voice towards the end - who knows who can hear them now? “Why are you even here? To look down on me? Leave me alone.”

“You don’t have to be like that,” protests the boy as she walks down the hallway. “Hey! You don’t even know where you’re going!”

She only manages a few steps before a hand at her wrist lurches her back, and she’s face to face with him again. Lauren stumbles back against the wall, mouth bared in a snarl. 

“I said _leave me alone._ ”

“Is it so wrong of me to not want you to get killed?” He sighs. “Goodness, you’re stubborn. There are guards at every corner and door. They do patrols on the regular. You don’t know their rounds. I do.”

“Will you just shut up?” she says, fisting at her hair in frustration. “What’s with you anyway? If you know their rounds, help me get out of here.”

All of a sudden, it’s as if a curtain has shut on his emotions. He stares blankly down at her. “The Leader won’t like that.”

“I don’t care.”

“You really should.” His mouth tenses. “You should care. I don’t want to see another one like you...gone. Stay here for the time-being, and don’t disobey their orders. It’s how you stay alive. I know you’ve been through a lot, but—”

“Stay alive?!” she snaps. “So I can become a _killer?!_ ”

He staggers back as she yanks him back into the office, slamming the door shut. Now, her voice grows louder. Something in Lauren breaks, and she snaps, all self-restraint going taut and fraying at the ends as she uses the last of her voice to yell at the boy.

“Yeah, I know what I’m here for. And you don’t know anything about me,” she croaks out hoarsely, watching as his expression morphs into morbid horror. The girl struggles to stand, gripping onto the end of the medical examination table for support as she takes a step forward, nearly catching her pants on a drawer hinge. “You don’t know _anything._ So don’t act like you’re better than me just because you’re okay with being like this and obeying them and not even bothering to get out of here! And even if you couldn’t, you just stand there and like you’re okay - okay with blood staining your hands like some sort of monster!”

Lauren sees him break, too. This time she is the one who recoils at the suffering on his face.

“Sorry,” she blurts out before clutching her fists tight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re not a—”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, but she catches the hesitation in his eyes before he looks at her, really looks at her, twin cores of blue fire boring into her own. “It’s okay.”

She shakes her head, offering out her hand. It draws out a small smile from him, and thankfully, he accepts. The boy’s hand is warm, and callused, and so human against hers - bigger, too, almost wrapping around her fingers. They fit in-between each others’ spaces and skin, and somehow, Lauren feels as if she’s just found the eye of an eternal storm: here, where it is silent and safe among the destruction and the chaos.

_Safety,_ more touches like these will say, eventually. _Home. You are my sanctity, my blood. I will be bound to you forever and always, and never leave your side, because in this house of liars and cheaters and killers and worse things, you are the one thing I know to be true._

_You are mine._

But that is years down the line.

“Lauren Sinclair,” she says, and gives him a piece of herself.

“Kieran White,” he says, and they smile, in unison, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *winks* miss me? :)
> 
> Seriously though, it's been a while, and we're back and ready with yet another multi-chapter fic - a fic I've wanted to write for quite some time now. Unlike WOTF, this thing is entirely non-canon proceeding the first chapter, and is fully planned out with all my intent to finish it fully. This means more spaced-out updates, certainly, but I can guarantee you three to four updates will occur during each month, exceptions always possible.
> 
> For plot's sake, Lauren won't get her abilities until the age of 16. You'll see why. And yes, we will indeed be spanning the width of her ten-year journey from traumatized child to the fearsome assassin she becomes in this verse - alongside Kieran dearest. I cannot wait to take you on this journey with me! 
> 
> This may not be as painful to go through as some of my other fics, but rest assured, there will be tears involved - and many plot twists as there are moments of copious fluff. Get ready, everyone. The ride begins in 3, 2, 1...
> 
> (For the record, the title comes from Richard Siken's poem 'Scheherazade', not the myth.)


	2. beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Concentrate on your heartbeat. Breathe in with the time. Slowly. And don’t think about what you left behind.”
> 
> For once, she listens properly to him. 
> 
> “How do you manage it?” she asks, and although the tears don’t come, her voice cracks. “How do you live with the guilt of knowing you could’ve come back - of everyone you leave behind - maybe killed—”
> 
> “You learn to manage, I guess,” he whispers. “And never lose sight of what you do. Otherwise you lose yourself too.” She inhales as he backs away, holding her hand in his.

To say that Kieran White’s sudden appearance in Dr. Taylor’s office was a surprise was, frankly, an understatement.

But with a grudging acceptance, she let Lauren go with one of the four candidates the Scythe had chosen. She doesn’t dare glance down the hallway, shoes clacking on the tiles as she exits the medical ward, lest she face the resemblance of her mother once more.

The Foxglove Compound, for all its name suggests, is a large enclosure of sorts - Lauren has discerned that much. But from the way the walls slope above her, in arches that seem to go up, up into the air in shades of marble and gray, colors that grow stronger when they exit the ward through a set of wooden maple doors, she senses the compound is perhaps veiling itself as a cathedral or church of sorts. Surprisingly, the hallway Kieran takes her to is all cherry wood floors and walls, with the large windows showing snippets of a garden to her left, grass strands waving their tall arms in the morning sunlight.

All thoughts leave her mind when he decides to flick a strand of hair out of her forehead.

“Hey!” Lauren objects, batting his hand away. “What was that for?”

“You weren’t paying attention,” he says smugly, crossing his arms. She groans. Maybe he’s the closest to a guide in this foreign, far-off place she isn’t calling home any time soon, maybe never, but if he isn’t the most annoying boy she’s ever met. Nothing like Dylan with all his enthusiasm and confidence. Kieran’s a bothersome thorn in her side, poking and prodding. “I could just let you wander the compound alone.”

“Thought you were a candidate?” she scoffs. “They chose you for a reason, though I can’t see why. Leaving someone to fend for themselves here is rude.”

“None of us are virtuous,” Kieran teases. “Now do you want to listen to your humble escort, or should I leave you to the wolves?”

“Humble.” Lauren rolls her eyes. “Can’t believe I refused the doctor for _you._ ”

“But I’m a much better pick,” he simpers, exaggeratedly pouting for effect. “I was the first one they chose to introduce to the Apostles. And to confide in about the Foxglove.”

“Great.” Lauren’s voice pitches up into a high falsetto; the longer Kieran talks, the longer he distracts her about the events she’s been through in the last twenty-four hours. “Tell me more, o’ humble escort.”

“And I shall, humble listener,” he says, sweeping his hands out in front of him. “Well, the first thing about the Foxglove Compound you should know is that no one’s allowed onto the second floor. Ever,” he says, holding up a finger. “It’s forbidden by the Apostles and the Leader himself. The first floor, where we are, is where everything is. Medical ward, training rooms, mess hall, dormitories, the like. Most of the Scythe’s members live outside the compound, though, since they’re given a salary and housing in the far-off districts. Closer to the police precincts and the castle, which is an advantage.” Lauren shivers at the mention of the monarchy. “So younger candidates like us and assassins in training - and associates - stay here. We’ll be monitored by the Messengers - the Apostle’s reporters and helpers, you’ll recognize them by their plague masks - and all twelve Apostles themselves, who are direct accomplices of the Leader.”

“So we have the place to ourselves?” she asks. His answering look is all she needs. “Of course.”

“Basically.” He stretches his arms out. “Think of it as a...very bloody academy training. You were in primary?”

“Secondary, like you were,” she snaps. “How old do you think I _am?!_ And you barely graduated. You’re not even making it into sixth form.”

“You’re tiny. Can’t blame me for thinking you were younger.” This time, it’s Kieran’s turn to yell as Lauren smacks him on the head.

“What was that for?!” He chokes on air as she shoves a hand to his mouth.

“I am literally only inches shorter than you. I’m not a toddler—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He will literally not stop smirking. “Such _pensive golden eyes,_ older than time itself. Forgive me, for making such a big mistake.”

“I really want to kill you right now,” grits out Lauren.

And to her surprise, Kieran does nothing but laugh. She chokes down tears at the sight of it, reminding her of Dylan, and wills away the red in her cheeks, before he can see her vulnerable again.

“Well, that’s what we’re all here for, aren’t we?” He winks at her. “Just don’t off me now, fellow assassin-in-training.”

“No promises,” she says sourly, but manages a smile as they enter into the next hallway.

____

Her first encounter with the other two candidates are nothing short of awkward. All four of them are summoned up in the empty training room, and she dares to catch a glimpse of them besides Kieran: one with long, spiraling pink hair down her back and pale skin, and the other with cropped dark hair and cold green eyes that nearly pierce through the veil of uncertainty shrouding them all. _Hawthorne and Davenport,_ the Messenger in front of them announces. The hawkish bend of his bird mask intimidates Lauren, although she doesn’t let it show. And then her and Kieran’s names are called: _Sinclair and White._

When Lauren’s last name is called, the hooded figure next to the Messenger steps forward. She holds back a shiver as the Apostle bends down to inspect her, ivory mask covering all but the white of his eyes; the marble covering his nose and lips and all features perfectly. It is horrifying. “So,” he rasps slowly. “This is the new one.”

_“An addition,”_ drawls the Messenger. _“The Leader did not object. He will be busy in the weeks to come, as the trainees begin their trials.”_

“I see. Well, we’ll see how well the cuckoo does in our ranks.” He stands to his full height. “White already comes from a family with a...select history. Davenport has none, and Hawthorne never had a good relationship with his.” Lauren hears the condescension in his voice. “Have all of Sinclair’s been eliminated?”

_“The uncle is the Chief of Police. It will be difficult to eliminate him, but we may be able to down the line.”_

_Uncle Tristan._ This time, she shakes visibly, and Lauren watches with bated breath as the Apostle catches onto it.

“We could allow for...one more visit,” he says, and she bites down on her lip, hard, as he sneers. “In a few years’ time.”

_“Perhaps.”_

“Then all possible attachments have been nullified.” The Apostle removes his mask, and she hears Hawthorne suck in a breath as he does so. A large scar runs down his right eye, and his brown eyes are unblinking, shaggy hair falling down his face.

“Welcome to the Phantom Scythe, children. You are all here for a glorious purpose.”

She doesn’t hear the rest of the Apostle’s speech, because all that occupies her mind for the rest of the hour is a repeat of what occurred at Allendale. _Fire. Screaming, so much screaming. The tales about a glorious future, gone. About two hundred dead. Only a few survivors. Dylan not among the surviving. His dad, too. Dylan. Did he suffer? Did he suffer when the bombing came? The flowers are gone. Mom and Dad are gone. And I’m gone too, gone, gone—_

“Hey.”

She startles when Kieran’s hand lands on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she admits, fiddling with the drawstring on her blouse. “A lot to take in,” she lies. “What about you?”

“Nothing that surprises me,” he says cryptically, and for a second, she catches a far-off look in his eyes, as if he’s had an out-of-body experience for a while. But his eyes regain clarity the second he sees her looking at him. “Admiring me?”

“You’d make an awful assassin,” she says in a monotone. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Excuse me?!” he yelps, and she giggles. But her laughter tapers off as she sees the expression on his face.

“It’s nothing to be proud of,” he says, but he shakes off the invisible weight of the tension that lies between them. “And you’re wrong. You heard the Apostle. Sometimes vice is in your blood.”

“It’s not in mine.” She looks down. “I don’t want it to be in mine.”

“Hey.” A warning in his voice. “Don’t cry here—”

“I’m not going to,” she hisses, and inhales as her nails bite crescents into her skin. But she feels hands over her own, unspooling her fingers, as Lauren tries to quell her rapidly fast breaths. Kieran, pressing down on her palms. His fingers shift down to her pulse on both arms.

“Concentrate on your heartbeat. Breathe in with the time. Slowly. And don’t think about what you left behind.”

For once, she listens properly to him.

“How do you manage it?” she asks, and although the tears don’t come, her voice cracks. “How do you live with the guilt of knowing you could’ve come back - of everyone you leave behind - maybe killed—”

“You learn to manage, I guess,” he whispers. “And never lose sight of what you do. Otherwise you lose yourself too.” She inhales as he backs away, holding her hand in his.

“You’re alone in this place. So am I. What matters now is you. No one else you left behind. Do you understand? That’s the only way you don’t let the grief take over you.”

“Okay,” Lauren says, nodding. And then louder: “Okay.”

Kieran nods in turn, but when he turns to leave with the others, she grabs his wrist.

“Truce.” She grips harder. “You help me, and...I bear your stupid remarks and advice.”

“You really need to work on your apology skills.” But he shakes her hand in one swift motion, and for the first time that day, their hands lie certain in each other, then part with the mutual agreement in their hearts that this is not the ending of things - at least, not yet.

“We have a deal,” he says, smirking. “Let’s go get lunch, Lauren.”

The events of November 13th still won’t leave her mind, even as Kieran takes her around the rest of the compound after a brisk break. And she knows he can tell, because when they come to a halt at the entrance of the garden, she won’t even bat an eye at the field of daisies.

“...But I like the hyacinths the best,” he says. “Are you seriously drifting off again?”

“I can’t get my head around the Phantom Scythe being a force of good,” she says, because there’s no use in hiding the truth from him. “What happened at Allendale...was a cog in their plans. But at the expense of so many dead?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call anything the monarchy or the Scythe does _good,_ ” clarifies Kieran, clasping his hands behind his back. Oddly enough, he looks at peace, explaining to her these things, as if it instills what he know to be true in his head. “Just necessary. And what they do is all necessary for the revolution, like the Apostle said. But you weren’t listening either.” There’s no judgement in his last comment. “If it comforts you, I don’t like doing this at all. And neither do you.”

She lets out a small noise of agreement. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“But it’s all we’ve got.” _Stay alive,_ choruses the mind in her voice. _You could escape in 5, 10, 15 years. Just stay alive for now._

He sighs. “You wanna see your room?”

She blinks in surprise. “I - I get a room?”

“What, did you think you were going to stay in the medical ward forever?” It’s a good-natured retort. “Follow me. You’re in the trainee quarters.”

And so she does. The trainee quarters are spread out throughout the compound, but they’re all in one wing, a large maze of hallways clad in velvet blue with lamps dangling warm light above them all. Her own room is identical to his, just down the hallway: a down mattress and sheets, washroom, and wardrobe. She’ll get more than training gear to wear down the line, she supposes.

But what makes it all the more real is that it’s all hers. Not a prison, like she might’ve thought two days ago. Just...a regular room, alongside her fellow trainees.

Allendale will weigh on her shoulders forever. For a long time, if not forever. The possibility of what could’ve been. If she could’ve stopped Dylan. If she could’ve joined Tristan’s household, and grown up to become the detective she’d always wanted to become. She would’ve joined the police academy, even. Met people that weren’t future killers.

But unlike two days ago, she has a companion. Maybe even a friend.

It’s a lot to bear.

But it’s not as heavy to bear as it was before.

____

  
  


She is woken up by the shrill sound of a bell.

Lauren doesn’t bolt out of bed instantly though; that happens when her door is slammed open by Davenport herself, tossing a bundle of clothes at her.

“You didn’t pick these up yesterday,” snorts the pink-haired girl, about her height, but a bit older - Kieran’s age? Fifteen, sixteen? “I doubt you’re my size. So don’t go rummaging through my things, _Lady_ Sinclair.”

“I highly doubt I’m even a Lady anymore,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “And it’s Lauren. Hello, Davenport.”

“Belladonna,” she says, waving a hand. Her lips twitch up in a smile. The same amusement that so often crosses Kieran’s features cross hers. “I like you, Lauren. I really do.” She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. “But I’m not here to have fun.”

“No one is.” She glances down at the bundle. The hem of a silk dress, a hint of a cashmere sweater, well-fitted pants. There’s so much more beneath. “How did you know I was—”

“Overheard those cursed Messengers talking.” She shivers. “They creep me out, but they do let things slip every now and then.”

“Are you giving me advice?” she says slowly. She matches Belladonna’s own expression.

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But don’t expect much. I’m not _him._ And neither is Julian.”

“Wasn’t expecting anything!” calls Lauren as she walks out the door.

The bundle turns out to be much bigger than she expected. Lauren isn’t sure if she’ll be going to the training rooms or being put to the grinder on her first day, so she chooses a white button up with rolled sleeves tucked into olive-green pants that are maneuverable enough to fight in. Not that she knows how to fight yet, but as she does up the buckle of a belt that has holsters for weapons, she figures that if she’s going to be forced to use a sword and dagger, she might as well actually be able to use it.

The belt turns out to be a good choice, in the end. All the trainees have been summoned to the training room in the north wing of the Foxglove, and when she arrives, she spots Kieran in the center of it all, waving a hand at her. The room is large, the size of a gym, with weapons racks on either side of the dark walls. A chandelier dangles above, wax candles lit up in flames. Salt circles drawn around the clay red mat, in rings, and then in seperate circles around a line of target dummies.

The swords catch her eye first. Short, long, double-blades, split-bladed. Then the daggers: curved, straight, pointed. Balisongs, nunchunks, staffs, whips, throwing stars, every single kind of weapon available.

She breathes in sharply to calm her anxiousness, hand on her pulse as she stands next to Kieran, who gives her a conspiratorial smile. Belladonna and Julian stand to her left, talking in whispers.

_Just breathe._

The Messenger in front of them then speaks.

_“Choose your weapons,”_ he rumbles, and unspools a long cut of fabric. Inside it is a mini demonstration of the weapon’s she’d seen on the wall. _“You will begin training soon in the art of what you have chosen. Do not touch the walls.”_

Belladonna moves first, instantly attracted to the showy silver and gold of swords. Then Julian, inspecting the crossbows.

Lauren doesn’t dare spare a glance at Kieran as she walks forward, inspecting the blades in front of her. The swords all seem too heavy - the daggers rest in front of her. Some short knives, with decorative hilts. To her right, they grow larger, more pointed.

A bronze one, after an uncomfortable two minutes - Belladonna’s already got her eyes set on a silver blade with a snake curling around the hilt, and Kieran’s selected a katana - catches Lauren’s eye. It passes for a dagger, but is about the length of a shortsword, compact and easy to wield. She picks it up with both hands, clumsily, but the weight rests easy in her hands. The hilt is simple, without a crossguard, just a dark bronze metal easing up into a cut of amber that gleams in the light.

She glances down at the inscription.

_Katoptris._

Yes, this one. This one is it. If she’s going to kill - she might as well do it mercifully.

“You’ve chosen?” Kieran whispers, eyes darting to Messenger. He hasn’t heard, and has eyes trained on Julian. The katana dangles from his hand, longer than her shortsword, but he doesn’t hold it awkwardly. He holds it like it’s been meant for him all along.

“I have,” she says, nodding. “This one seems...nice. You? You like that katana?”

He looks down at it, and his expression softens. “My family had one like it. Some ancestors were born outside Ardhalis. My—” Kieran breaks off, shaking his head. “I’m comfortable with it.”

She nods, understanding. He hovers over her, inspecting Katoptris. Kieran smells like sandalwood and bergamot, a feverish scent. But to her, it’s nothing but comforting as he taps the side of the sword, smiling in approval.

“Suits you. Short.”

“I’ll whack you with this if you don’t stop calling me short,” she growls. He does nothing but laugh. But this time, her annoyance fades into joy.

_“Today, with the weapons you have chosen, you will begin training,”_ says the Messenger, and they all snap to attention. Voidless eyes look out of the plague mask. _“Are you ready to begin?”_

Lauren lowers Katoptris, and closes her eyes. She sees the girl she was, days ago, sobbing in front of a fire, over all she’d lost.

_You’re alone in this place. So am I. What matters now is you._

So she opens her eyes, and learns to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foxgloves are poisonous flowers. Fitting for the Phantom Scythe.
> 
> Katoptris was Helen of Troy’s infamous dagger, meaning ‘looking glass’ or ‘mirror.’ 
> 
> Also, whoa! I’m blown away by the warm reception Scheherazade’s first chapter has gotten. Consider this a early gift from me to you. The next couple chapters will come in August, and will definitely elaborate more on Lauren and the rest of the Scythe gang. Or, as I like to call them, murder babies...


	3. revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What was that, Lauren?”_  
> 
> 
> Lauren holds a hand to her forehead. “I hesitated.” Her breath hitches. “I hesitated.”

A week passes, and Lauren eventually learns to settle into the routine that grows into her daily life, somehow. The nagging in her head grows quieter. The compound becomes easier to navigate around - and so is her schedule. Training at dawn, noon, and the evening, with tutoring on the side and breaks for three meals a day. And free time - given rarely.

But the nightmares don’t stop, certainly not past midnight, when she lays her head on her pillow at last. This time, they’re not just vivid flashes of train stations on fire and Dylan’s cap whistling in the wind, his back turned to her as he walks into his doom. This time, they’re marred by worse things. The Scythe standing by the window of the Sinclair Mansion. Her parents waving back at her. Men in white-marbled masks. Her, alone in the Foxglove Compound. Past and present blending together simultaneously.

Her parent’s murders and Dylan’s. One she could’ve stopped - and the other, she had no control over. 

Letting go may be impossible.

_Your grief clings to you like a shroud,_ commented one of the Messengers during morning practice, the light splintering over her in the salt circles as she twirled a practice sword - Katoptris is for when she is truly ready, after all. _You must let go._

_You monsters made me this way,_ she’d thought, bitterly going through the motions: block, parry, thrust. Over and over again, twenty times each. _You took all I had. I will never become one of you._

When the time comes to kill - she’ll be merciful, if she can kill at all. But she knows she can’t right now. Perhaps never. And that might as well signal an early death. Belladonna and Julian don’t hesitate in their practice rounds. Some of the older recruits that check in at the compound once in a while - Adela Green, Timothy Smith - never hesitate in their missions. Kieran, she can’t quite get a read on, but is rapidly becoming favored by the Apostles, if the rumors are true. The shadows still hover over him, though, and are barely visible. The only way anyone could tell was by seeing him in front of any Messenger or Apostle giving him praise - with his typical aloofness and arrogance, but with hunched shoulders and a tensed mouth. 

She’s known him close enough now that she can tell when _he’s_ about to break. Kieran’s perfected his charade - she hasn’t yet, so all it takes is a minor twitch of his lips, indistinguishable to the naked eye, for Lauren to run after him after an encounter with a masked man and distract him with filler talk, or apologies and comforting half the time. 

And slowly, she’ll watch the blue return to his eyes.

It’s only fair, after he took her to the garden after she fell apart, and held her steady when she was close to breaking again. 

Yes, he’s annoying. Yes, he’s a braggart and a show-off and a thousand other things, but kind when he wants to be. She doesn’t say a word when he slips her half his blueberry scone in the mess hall, both of them perched on a table where the other trainees are, too. 

“You’re not going to thank me?”

“Like I should.” She flicks a crumb at him. “You stole my sandwich yesterday. This doesn’t make up for anything.”

“Harsh, Lauren.” Belladonna smirks beside Julian. 

“It’s a fair exchange,” she says, and the two girls share a glance of mischief. 

“Oh, are we ganging up on me now?” Kieran asks, crossing his arms. “Julian, come _on._ Save me here!”

The other boy blinks. “I mean. It _is_ very entertaining to watch you get pelted by scone crumbs.”

Kieran sags in defeat. 

“Shame,” Lauren says, giggling as she flicks his forehead, and the others burst into raucous laughter as well. But when she bends down slightly to meet his eyes, he’s smiling at her while shaking his head, knowingly. 

This is what a friend is, she supposes. 

____

  
  


Rumor has it that the Leader has come out of hiding. 

Lauren tries to hide her visible distraction, but the Messenger watching her duel Belladonna catches onto it like a viper. The blunt tip of Belladonna’s sword grazes against her side, and she sidesteps, barely fast enough. One hand is all it takes for the two girls to step away, panting harshly. She catches the glimmer in the other girl’s eyes before the Messenger steps next to her, cocking his head.

_“What was that, Lauren?”_

Lauren holds a hand to her forehead. “I hesitated.” Her breath hitches. “I hesitated.”

_“Are you going to hesitate again?”_

She says ‘no’ a second too late. It’s enough for the Messenger’s hand to wrap around her wrist and tug her towards him, blank, voidless eyes staring down at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Kieran twitch. But just barely. She tampers down her fear.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” That doesn’t seem enough for the Messenger to let go of her. Lauren grips the hilt of her sword tighter. “I promise.”

_“Then show it.”_ He lets go, and her breath rushes out of her. Belladonna raises her sword across from her, slightly longer than Lauren’s own. Her mouth’s pulled in a slight scowl, as if to remind her silently what she’s here for. And what will happen if she doesn’t comply. How easily Belladonna could wipe the floor with her if she wished, because even though all four of them are bound in their goal, they are, in the end, meant to be vicious with each other if any of them - _any of them_ \- hesitate.

Lauren raises her sword again. And when the Messenger signals _go,_ she runs forward with all her might, thrusting, parrying, close to levying the striking blow on Belladonna. But it’s always too close. 

And she knows this isn’t enough for them - it will never be. She can tell by the way the Messenger keeps his eyes trained on her even when the duel ends and she ends up at an impasse with Belladonna, her blade against hers. The bell sounds as the trainees pack up, and almost instantly, Kieran’s at her side, pulling her up to her feet. 

“You did good,” he says, and when she cocks an eyebrow at him, pushing auburn stands out of her face, he doesn’t look sarcastic in the slightest, sword at his hip. Even when she looks like someone’s put a corpse with a wig on through a thousand laps. 

“You’re lying,” she says, waving him off. “I saw you against Bella and Julian.”

“We all hesitate,” he admits, wincing as she shoots him a look. “It just takes a while to not hesitate at all.”

“Like it’ll come easy.” 

“You’ll see.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “It’ll become muscle memory after a while.”

She bites down on her lip. It will, and that’s the hard truth of it all. Eventually, she’ll adjust, or she won’t. And adjusting seems worse than not becoming what they make of her, in the end. Will Kieran adjust? What happens if she doesn’t?

But the choice is made for her, already. 

“Sinclair.” Apostle Three waits at the door. “The Leader wishes to see you. Come with me.”

____

  
  


_The Leader wishes to see you._

She can feel the blood rushing in her ears as the Apostle and her ascend the spiraling staircase up to the second floor - which can hardly be called a second floor; more like a floor miles and miles above the first, the entryway far above the cellar that contains said stone staircase, dim light filtering in from the cracked windows. Every step is a step closer to her fate. Her doom.

She shouldn’t have _hesitated,_ or been so _weak,_ or—

A week. A week and everything she’s lived for has gone down the drain. 

“We’re here,” says the Apostle, and Lauren watches as he unlocks an ornately carved wooden door, engraved with flowers she can’t identify - all sharp petals and thorny stems, foreboding to any eye. She can’t help shivering as they descend into what seems to be an eternal darkness.

After a couple of seconds, she realizes they’ve started to move down a hallway, and into a room. Still nothing is visible, save for the lamp on the side of what appears to be a desk. 

The lamp clicks on as a weathered hand reaches out to tug on the chain, and Lauren flinches. She’s in an office, one that wouldn’t seem out of place in a workplace setting. Crimson carpets and warmly-lit bookshelves, with weapons hanging on the wall. And vials in the back, containing things Lauren doesn’t want to know about. The man that sits in front of her is not masked. The scent of cigar smoke radiates off his pin-striped suit, and the scar on his bottom lip twitches.

A radio sits in front of him, crackling. A finger is on the dial. She hadn’t noticed the signet ring on his index until now - engraved with an anemone.

“You needn’t look so worried,” says the Leader of the Phantom Scythe, chuckling darkly. “Were you afraid?”

Lauren says nothing, fingernails biting crescents into her palms. 

“Ah, I don’t blame you for being. But I won’t be around long. There’s nothing to fear.”

She still continues to stay silent. The man sighs, leaning forward, inspecting her face. “You’re young. Our youngest. And I wouldn’t find it odd that you have been one of the few candidates showing signs of reluctance.”

“You don’t mean that,” she blurts out, and instantly regrets it. The Leader sighs, leaning back in his chair.

“I understand, Miss Sinclair. I understand what you’ve been through. But I still know you cannot go through with all of this.”

Her blood runs cold, but before she has the chance to object, he holds up a finger, getting up from his desk. The Leader is a tall man, towering far above her physique. The radio falls silent as he adjusts the dial on it, the static descending into silence, and then, slowly, into a twisted harmony. The sound of a car engine. Voices trailing off into the night. 

_“Do you have everything you need, darling?”_

_“Alexander, rest easy, I’m fine! Let’s go before we’re late. Did you tuck in Lauren?”_

A sharp gasp is torn from her lips as she doubles over, gasping for air. When she clutches at the fabric of her shirt, looking up at the Leader, he holds a finger up, pointing to the radio. “Listen.”

Cold eyes bore into her own, no hint of warmth to be found. Behind her, the Apostle blocks the door.

So Lauren sinks into the maplewood chair twice her size, and—

____

  
  


— _listens_ —

_“Look,” says Rachel Sinclair, laughing as she adjusts the cloche hat on her head of crimson hair. Alexander turns where his wife is gesturing, and breaks into identical laughter as they wave at the third-story frosted window, barely revealing the head of a young girl waving goodbye, white nightgown spilling over her, white flower petals in the shape of chiffon over a portrait of innocence._

_“We’ll be back soon!” Alexander calls, adjusting his suit. The driver is looking at them with a pointed look, and he claps a hand over his shoulder, causing him to startle slightly._

_“She’s anxious,” he says, gesturing to their daughter. “You know - little girls - they always_ — _”_

_“I’m aware,” the driver says, thin-lipped. “I’ve to escort you soon.”_

_“Right then,” Alexander says jovially. “Rachel!”_

_The closing of a door. The shuttering of a curtain. One last round of applause._

_No one sees the engraving on the automobile’s license plate. Or the driver’s missing fourth finger, anyhow. How quickly things get overlooked in the still of the night._

_“Where to, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair?”_

_“I believe Goodfellow told you earlier?” Alexander hands him a slip of paper. “Here you are. Are you perfectly sure you’re alright, darling?”_

_“I told you, I’m fine,” Rachel insists, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Just the cold, is all.”_

_The engine starts, and the car purrs as it begins sliding off the gravel tracks and onto the streets of Ardhalis. Down a maze of streets, past the district where they’re housed, down the path by the river, moonlight illuminating everything in pure white._

_“We could take a faster route,” says the driver, turning the car around a bend, tires smoothly crossing over cobblestones. “If you wouldn’t mind, there’s a road down by the 7th precinct that will save us time.”_

_“Not at all.” Rachel’s voice. “Although, if it wouldn’t be terribly rude of me to ask, sir - that man…?”_

_“A friend of mine.” None of them catch the leer on his face. “He’ll help with directions.”_

_“But…”_

_The objection fades into the night. Another player enters the stage. He boards the automobile, sliding into the passenger seat. The scar that carves over his left eye is hidden in the darkness. Both Rachel and Alexander still at his appearance._

_“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair.”_

_Rachel is the first to speak after a beat of five. “What are you doing here?”_

_The click of a gun. It is not his. Alexander holds the pistol in his hands like a well-worn weapon. He knows how to use it._

_“I’m sure you know why.” His smile grows wider. “You know, I’ve always wanted to meet a Snapdragon.”_

_Alexander grits his teeth. “Phantom Scythe.”_

_“Spot on.”_

_“Monster,” he spits, and that’s when the driver steps on the gas._

_“Hey!” Tim Sake roars, clutching for dear life onto the passenger seat. Rachel and Alexander tumble back in their seats, Alexander hurriedly reaching for the gun. “Have you lost your mind?! Where are you going?!”_

_Too late, he catches the flower pin on his suit jacket. That’s when everything goes haywire, see._

_A snapdragon engraved on silver, poking out from the depth._

_“You.” His eyes widen. “You’re_ — _”_

_“You and that legion of killers and decrepits you call a revolutionary force will not last.” Their destination is within view, now. Alexander’s gun tumbles to the side as the driver raises his own gun: with three bullets in it. “The Snapdragon will rise again.”_

_Rachel speaks out in fear. “What’s going on?!”_

_“You’ll understand.” A small smile. “Flowers always bloom when people least expect them to.”_

____

The radio recording tapers off as three gunshots ring out in the silence. The screeching of tires comes to a halt. Someone stumbles out of the bugged car - the only passenger left, the Scythe’s associate.

Lauren continues to sit there numbly as the Leader switches off the radio.

“Before the Scythe, there was the Snapdragon,” he explains. “Your parents were a part of it. As well as their driver. Their goal was to stop us, and when they could not, killed their own as an act of keeping their mouths shut - forever. Even if that meant innocent families torn apart.”

He kneels down to her height.

“In this story, there are no martyrs.” He looks almost sad, but Lauren knows better. Maybe she can’t tell at all, on second thought. The world is a blur of shadow and light, and the smoke is suffocating her. The walls are closing in. “There is only one end goal. And it is up to you to choose which side you will be on. Something or nothing, Lauren Sinclair.”

_Out, out, out, have to get out._

She runs for the door, slamming into the Apostle as she does, but he lets her go. Lets her frantically turn the knob on the door and dart down the hallway, shoes clacking against stone as she pushes open the cellar door and down the staircase.

The Leader sighs, cracking his knuckles.

“I think we’ve taken care of that, then.”

“Maybe a little too well.” Apostle Three shakes his head. “This is only the beginning.”

“I don’t mind a little extra vengeance.” He chuckles. “My time’s almost up, anyhow. This’ll be entertaining to see.”

____

_Out, out out._

_Got to get out._

When she descends the staircase, and appears back on the first floor of the Foxglove Compound, Lauren makes a break for the garden. Through an endless maze within the cathedral, startling several attendees and occupants while she’s at it. The tears haven’t come yet, but she can’t see anything. Her hands won’t stop shuddering. 

“Lauren!”

She knows that voice.

“Lauren, wait, _wait!_ ”

She doesn’t wait. She keeps running, and slams open the glass doors to the garden. Her bare feet sing on hot pavement, but she ignores the sensation as the evening light pours over her, casting her in gold as she keeps running, running. The garden is bigger than she thought, apparently, because when she crosses into a large space crowded by hedges and bushes taller than her head, they start descending into wilder, more chaotic spools of wilderness: brambleberry bushes with thorns curling around her legs, scraping her skin. Trees with thick foliage erasing all light from the woods. Somehow, she has stumbled into the backwood forest, at the edge of the garden.

Water is coming from somewhere. In the distance, there is a cave. 

Someone’s chasing after her, but she still doesn’t stop until she’s at the entrance of the cave, and then inside, hands clawing at the rock wall for support. Her breath comes out in sharp, heavy pants - it’s damp in here, spacious, with blue lines criss-crossing the granite rock. Water runs freely in here, almost like a forest oasis. 

Kieran stumbles in a moment later, and that’s when she rounds on him, fisting his collar. 

“You said you were favored by them. You said - you said they told you things they didn’t tell anyone,” she yells, tugging him forward. “Did - did they send you for me on purpose? Did they _make_ you _care about me?!_ ”

“Lauren, please, I don’t—” Kieran grabs at her hands, steadying her. “Yes, it’s true, they chose me because they wanted to get to you - why, I don’t know, but I don’t fake caring about you. You’re my friend!” he insists, as she lets go, walking back a couple of steps. “You’re my friend,” he insists. 

Lauren stuffs her hands in her pockets, pacing the cave. The ribbon she’d always kept in her pocket - she couldn’t let it go ever since she was abducted - is now on the floor, probably from her scuffle. “If you’re my friend, you wouldn’t have _lied_ to me.”

“I didn’t lie, I swear,” he breathes. “I just—I’m sorry.”

“Did you know?”

“Lauren—”

_“Did you know,”_ she hisses, but the look in his eyes is all the answers she needs. Lauren only has a vague impression - memory - later on of her striding over to the hair ribbon flung on the cave floor. She catches it in between her fingers, pulling it taut. _“Did you?”_

“I did,” he says, swallowing harshly as she turns to look at him. “I did. In order to preserve its chances of survival, the Snapdragon made a deal with the monarchy: they’d pass off Allendale as a Phantom Scythe-related bombing, and allow Phillip to take the king’s throne, after having its double agents eliminate their most prominent members - just so their founding members could hide underground and eventually arise as an insurgent cause to us--”

He is cut off by the snapping of fabric. Lauren tears the ribbon into shreds, pieces, tiny shards of cotton, until there’s nothing but the sound of wild panting and tears falling silently onto the cave floor. Kieran stands in front of her still, waiting for her next move. 

He doesn’t ask her if she’s okay. That’s one of the things she likes about him. He knows that no amount of fruitless apologies will fix anything. Probably because he had everything taken from him, like she has. Maybe more.

“What do you want?” he asks, after an eternity of silence, after her breaths have quelled. 

She inhales.

“I want,” she breathes out shakily, “them gone. All of them. The Snapdragon. The monarchy. I want it all gone,” she says, laughing wildly as she does, clutching at her arms. “I want my parent’s killers dead. I want them dead.”

She looks up at him then, and rises from her grief into the familiar clutch of rage that will fuel her in the years to come.

  
“I want all of them dead,” she swears. “At my hand and my hand _alone_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snapdragons mean deception. I've written them as a past rebellion group against the monarchy and the Scythe; they mainly function as a plot tool for turning Lauren against her goals - we did need something, after all! - but still, keep your eyes peeled.
> 
> Well, time to say goodbye to baby Lauren and Kieran, everyone, because this is the last you’ll see of them (and their relative innocence!) Ironically; this is not just because of Lauren’s new ‘revenge goal,’ simply due to the fact that we will be jumping ahead to 16-year old Lauren and 18-year old Kieran in the proceeding chapters - although, to be fair, Miss Sinclair’s chugging that Rage Kool-Aid like no one’s business now. We’ll also get more of Belladonna and Julian - and other characters as well.
> 
> Ah, my little babies, off to destroy people. I actually think they’re more open in regards to emotion and sensitivity given how 1) Lauren’s allowed to process her darker emotions unlike in the canon, where everything is okay, but it’s Not Okay, even though she keeps claiming Everything Is Fine, like the idiot she is, and 2) Kieran has Lauren. In canon he doesn’t have any friends, despite being an idiot SIMP.


	4. throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katoptris is clear today, polished to a high shine. And when the assassin holds it out, an extension of her arm, it shows both their faces on either side: the man, expressionless, looking at her with bated breath, and the girl, crouched to strike, feeling nothing but the mediation-state of battle.
> 
> One twist of the foot.
> 
> Strike.

In the middle of the garden, a song drifts all the way up to the tops of the willow trees, flitting around on bird wings until it reaches the ears of a boy crouched on the branch of an oak, eyes darting around the middle of the clearing, focusing on the reed flute in the hands of a man playing a forlorn lullaby. There is no sound to come out of a blade being unsheathed, glittering along the length of his wrist. The crossbow rests on his shoulder notches in-between the distance of his shoulder and arm, the iron bolt at the ready. Had anyone unveiled his mask, or his hood, they’d catch dewdrops of sweat trailing the slope of his neck, or his forehead, familiar weaknesses to have in the moments before the striking, the kill.

A shrill note pierces the clearing, and that is when he moves. Silent, a wraith clambering down wooden trunks and dirt roads until he is running towards the man in the clearing, who ducks his incoming bolt easily, barely kicking up gravel as he swerves to the left, feet planted firmly in place, steady as any tree. The boy aims once, twice more, but the bolts thunk into the trees behind the man, who advances, flute in hand. He grits his teeth and flings out the full length of silver, darting forward. He is on the clear offense, still impulsive as all boys are, blade flying in smooth arcs, slashing at air. The man continues to avoid his blows, and grapples with him as he jumps towards him, a wrist snaring his foot in the middle of a crescent kick, bringing him down to the ground.

The blade clatters out of his wrist, and that is the second cue for a girl to come dashing around the bend, golden sword another lantern in the evening light. From the way she runs, shoes making no sound, anyone can tell she is ice where there was once fire in the heat of battle, cold, removed, efficient. With one slash, the reed flute breaks in half.

The tops of her pink hair show as her hood slides over her shoulders, but she paces back, smiling with all her teeth - a wolf anticipating her prey. The man stands there, still unmoving, eyes clearly beckoning her forward. 

And she does, sprinting with all the speed of someone who’s never had to truly run, sword parallel to the ground, one hand outstretched. His arm blocks her blade, and she twirls mid-air, bringing her fist to his side. The man staggers back, the girl twirling her gold baton in circles, dizzying spheres of amber, until the first strike hits, bringing him back. Her tip has caught his clothing. When he bends over, she takes her chance, thrusting forward — 

— only to meet air, as her sword is flung to the side. She is tossed like a ragdoll, too, for all her height, into the bark of the willow tree, beside the boy.

_“Lauren!”_ She’s grinning as she tugs off her hood, locks spilling over her shoulders. _“Finish this!”_

There’s still one more left, and she still hasn’t shown her face. Leaves rustle around the clearing as the man turns to barely catch the middle of a shortsword aiming for his back, levying his way, but fails, as the girl in all black falls back, stepping back on the balls of her feet, light as a doe in the winterfall. Only a strand of auburn falls down her forehead, little strands of crimson curling around her ears and shoulders. 

Katoptris is clear today, polished to a high shine. And when the assassin holds it out, an extension of her arm, it shows both their faces on either side: the man, expressionless, looking at her with bated breath, and the girl, crouched to strike, feeling nothing but the mediation-state of battle.

One twist of the foot.

Strike.

The girl does not go on the offensive, but defends herself, holding Katoptris close as she begins her closing call. One, two, three, meant to drive him back, to lure him into thinking he can catch her - and then, sudden and swift as night, a series of ferocious, swift strikes, aiming for his pulse, his neck. The man ducks, but isn’t quick enough to escape Katoptris sliding against his shoulder, cutting through clothing. A matching cut joins the space near his abdomen.

Her sword demands more. To end this. And she listens, diving her arm back, bringing her sword up in an arc.

But impatience wins over, and she crashes into the ground as he missteps her attack, foot on her back, hand pinned behind her back. Katoptris slides to the side, glinting in the dim light.

“Well done,” reverberates Apostle Ten. “If you were all trying to _die._ ”

All three of them groan as he goes on. “Belladonna, do not be careless. Julian, exercise control. And Lauren - stop showing off.” 

“No one’s going to notice your little tricks in battle,” shouts Belladonna, as Lauren shoves herself up off the ground with her elbows, thrusting her hood back, ponytail swinging wildly. She scrunches her nose up.

“I was not showing off,” she retorts, huffing. “As if you were any better!”

A gong rings. She immediately pushes herself up off the ground, dusting off her clothes. She knows what that sound means. She knows who’s back. But Apostle Ten calls them over, barking orders at them in increasingly demanding rounds, until she’s bursting to the brim with impatience to go back to the Foxglove, and she knows the others can tell by now.

“For now, that will do.” The Apostle dusts off his hands, eyes darting to Lauren. “You’re free for the night. And, Lauren - try not to seriously crush your friend’s bones when you see him.”

____

  
  


She doesn’t get the chance to crush Kieran White’s bones, because when she dashes down to the medical ward, Dr. Taylor and her assistants are running around the line of curtained beds, muttering to themselves as they fix up incoming returnees. It only takes her a couple of strides down faded tile to reveal a parted section of beige that slides across her fingertips to reveal him there, wincing as a nurse injects something into his midriff. His ribs have been broken - the bandages wrapping around them say as much. 

No, he’s already crushed them himself. Beside him, Julian sits as another nurse pushes back his mangled dark hair, grunting as she applies salve to his bruises from training. Kieran perks up when he sees her appear in front of him, but hisses through his teeth when the nurse retracts the needle.

“Did you get back from L’Arlequin?!” she demands breathlessly. “I asked Ten if it was a stealth mission. He said you’d gone alone.”

“I did.” He cocks his familiar grin, all sweet arrogance that rushes through her bones as deeply as reassurance does. “Made it out in one piece, as you can see, Lauren.”

“And killed three targets while you were there,” says Julian, raising an eyebrow. “Congratulations, Kieran. Or should I say the Purple Hyacinth? Is that what they’ve named you?”

“So you’ve heard.” She can tell Kieran isn’t happy to give Julian answers; the tautness of his mouth is the only giveaway. “A reputation is a double-edged sword.”

“With its uses.” He smiles mirthlessly. “I’ll be starting my own mission soon.”

“Great.” His tone could not be more dry. “Have fun while you’re at it.”

“Really? _Three targets_ at eighteen, and yet you’re still so humble about it.” Julian throws his head back and laughs. It’s no secret his disconnect to his wealthy family has lended bitterness to the once-jovial boy Lauren knew when they were children. Now they’re older, and Julian’s shyness has morphed into silent grudges, and Belladonna’s easy humor into hard charisma. They are closer than ever, and growing apart as four flowers who dare not share the same pot - save for her and Kieran, intertwining their stems and roots with one another. She supposes they are all becoming weapons. 

“I suppose I should be proud.” Lauren frowns. Something about his phrasing is off, and she catches another good look at him. He does _not_ want to be here right now. 

Half her mind tells her to cart him over his shoulder and run, but the doctors and nurses would be upset, one, and two, she can’t carry a boy _four inches_ and _thirty pounds_ heavier - all in muscle - than she is. Not yet, anyway.

“Well, I’d be.” Julian’s smirk only grows wider. “One step closer to the coveted revolution, right?”

“That’s one way to think about it.” Belladonna’s voice from behind, sugary sweet. “Julian. Kieran.” Her eyes train on Lauren. 

“Me,” she says, warily. “You still haven’t sheathed your sword.”

“My little viper is still scared of darling Katoptris.” She pouts. “Don’t want you to start twirling that thing like a ribbon dancer, don’t we?”

“I told you,” Lauren groans. “I wasn’t twirling it for _fun._ ”

“Ah, you’re still doing that?” Kieran says, and all eyes train on him. “The twirly thing, I mean. She still does it!” Her face flushes red at the sight of his expression. “Showing off, aren’t we?”

“I wasn’t _showing off!_ ” she exclaims, as Kieran and Belladonna laugh, Julian letting out a small chuckle - the two boys' animosity forgotten for a while, at least. But even though they are soft with each other at times like these, it is never long. It shows as much when Belladonna leaves the ward, waving goodbye to all three of them, and when Julian leaves minutes behind her, avoiding Kieran’s gaze. 

Which leaves them alone together. When the nurse leaves, she sits on his bed, and he retracts his legs back, crossing them as she perches on the side daintily. Her hand skins against his leg, and he nudges his own against hers, their fingers sliding in between each other’s spaces. He smells like soap and warmth - as if he hadn’t just been in the heat of bloody battle hours ago.

“I’d hoped you were safe,” she admits. “I know you’ve been doing this for two months now, and you’re _good_ at it, it’s just that—” She hesitates. “I was worried.”

“Aw, so you _were_ in a tizzy over me,” he teases, and she shoves him back, grinning when he yelps in pain. 

“Hey!”

“Shouldn’t have teased me,” she retorts, grinning. But it fades. “How was L’Arlequin, really?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He breathes in sharply. “The thing is, Lauren, is that you don’t remember much of what you’re doing, after a while. While you’re actually doing an assignment. You do what you do, and get out. And then, when the memories come, it becomes impossible to not remember everything.”

The words come rushing out of him in a torrent. All Lauren can do is squeeze his hand tighter, but in truth, she feels the farthest thing from numb when she trains. When she thinks about doing what he does so well. Vengeance has a home in her heart, unlike his. He’s good at it, she’s learning. It’s complicated for him. It never was for her.

“I get it,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine.” Again, something's off. She frowns. Why can she _hear_ things? “I swear. I’m more interested in your training session, really.”

“You stopped training a year ago. You still want to hear about my day?” she asks, huffing. “Belladonna’s starting soon, too. As the youngest, I have at least two years down the line. If not _more._ ”

“Well, I’m going to be in here for a while. And Katoptris looks like it has a story to tell,” he says, nodding to the sword hilt emerging from her belt. It’s green around the edges, stained from grass.

Lauren groans. “What do you want to know?”

A smile crosses his features. “Everything. I heard you got the closest to actually defeating Ten.”

“If I didn’t know you better by now, I’d say you were proud,” she drawls, pinching his shoulder. 

“Perhaps I am.” He responds by flickering her forehead. “Stop with the sword tricks, Lauren, and you’ll get there.”

“Says the _Purple Hyacinth._ ”

“Touche.” 

_I missed you,_ she thinks, but dares not say. 

____

  
  


When Kieran gets out of the medical ward, the first thing she finds him doing is battling Apostle Seven in the training rooms. 

Because of course he wouldn’t listen to doctor’s orders, and instead would chose to instead overwork himself even after getting bones broken, for goodness’ sake. Lauren watches with nothing short of complete exasperation as he leaps mid-air, landing silently, sword clashing against the Apostle’s staff in a series of dangerously close strikes, like a dance. The way Kieran fights is like a dancer - swift and silent and beautiful, until you don’t even realize he’s stabbed you.

All throughout the session, she dares not take her eyes off of him. He blocks Seven’s parry, the thin material of his shirt straining. It would be a lie to say they haven’t shot up like weeds in the past four years, but Kieran even more so. Now, she’s still four inches below him, but their difference in build is palpable; Lauren is a toned, lithe attacker, whilst Kieran’s broad figure seems to cut through the darkness, imposing itself on the unknowing. 

A flush rises to her cheeks as he rolls on his back, gritting his teeth as their weapons clash. She really shouldn’t be distracting him like this - observing him, giving him pressure.

But then their eyes meet across the room, and Kieran _winks,_ pushing off the Apostle as if he weighs nothing.

Lauren’s blush only grows deeper. With one fell swoop of his sword, the battle ends.

“You’re doing better,” is Seven’s only remark as Kieran slings his katana over his shoulders, the silver metal shining in the chandelier light.

“I’d hope I was, otherwise,” he retorts sarcastically. But his expression softens when he lays eyes on her. 

“You’re doing better,” is all Lauren says, leaning against the wall, still in training gear. She smirks as he makes a noise of protest. “Nice one.”

“Not you turning into one of them,” he groans, wrapping bandages around his knuckles. At his feet, Kieran’s jacket lies, and a novel of some sort. Looking closer, though, it doesn’t seem to be a novel at all - almost like a sketchbook, with charcoal held in the spirals of it.

“What--”

His hand shoots out like a vice to snake around her wrist. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

“Is this another one of your tricks where you say you want to show me something and then end up stealing me away somewhere?” 

“Not this time,” he admits, shrugging, even as she mutters to herself. “I actually do have something to show you. Outside the compound.”

Her eyes fly open, and Lauren stumbles back in the hallway, hand grasping for her hood. “ _Outside?_ You know I can’t leave yet--”

“Think of it as inspiration before your first kill,” he says, swinging his katana before sheathing it in its belt, the weapon like the inverse image of Katoptris before black leather swallows it up. “I’m a senior member. If we get caught, I highly doubt they’ll punish us.”

“Kieran, you’re insane!” she says, grabbing at his sleeve. “I’m serious, it doesn’t matter if you’re the Purple Hyacinth--”

And there it is again, his eyes going blank for a moment, before they return to their normal state. “See, that’s the thing,” he says, and suddenly, she can smell his scent of sandalwood and musk, their noses nearly touching as he grins, widely. “I’m Ardhalis’s most wanted.”

“Dead,” she deadpans.

“Dead,” he repeats. “So what’s a little trip outside if I’m bringing along Ardhalis’s future second-most-wanted?”

She crosses her arms. “We’ll see about that.”

This time, though, Lauren doesn’t catch the downwards twitch of his mouth as he turns around, his jovial manner back up in a flash. “Yes, yes, we all know you’ll beat me.”

“Don’t regret your words later,” she says, grabbing his hand, and wipes all second thoughts from his brain as they run forward, together.

____

  
  


‘Outside’ turns out directly to be on the rooftops of Ardhalis, looking out at the view of the city below. Lauren knows this place keenly, but it’s changed over the years, buildings shooting up, adding walls and windows as they go, the Aevasther Castle spiraling up towards the sky. The last part only adds fuel to her ire - that, in the future, is a castle she will send tumbling down to dust and ash. As night falls, the lights switch on below, one by one, until the fog and damp air is lit up by thousands of warm gas lamps.

“This is our territory,” Kieran breathes, gesturing outwards. “All of it. And soon enough, you’ll have it, too.”

“Hopefully sooner,” Lauren murmurs under her breath. “Some part of it ticks me off.”

He chuckles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Out of all the things I thought you’d say, it wouldn’t be that.”

“It’s beautiful,” she remarks honestly, ponytail flying in the wind. “That’s the problem.”

Somehow, he doesn’t ask her what she means by that, only nods, and turns to watch the sky, both of them shoulder to shoulder, creating a cutting figure out of the shadows. Her eyes dart again to the sketchbook in the inside of his coat - he hasn’t left it all this while, refusing to leave in behind.

“What’s that you’re carrying inside your coat?” she asks, tentatively.

In the next few seconds when he looks at her and speaks, her world is changed forever. It is not the first time it has been altered permanently.

**“Nothing,”** he remarks, not looking away from the view. 

She bites her lip as she shivers. He’s lying. He’s lying. Kieran White, who took her hand when she first came here, who helped her in a thousand ways and a million more, is _lying to her--_

_“Sinclair.”_

She startles as she turns around rapidly, the Messenger behind them with his hands folded behind his back. Lauren feels Kieran walk next to her, almost protectively.

“I apologize, sir, we were only…”

“ _Enough,”_ he says, holding a hand up. _“That’s hardly what I am here for.”_ He points to Lauren. _“You’re on time.”_

“For what?” she asks, confusion visible.

  
_“For your first assignment, ironically,”_ the Messenger drawls. _“Before we even got the chance to assign you your task.You are above the seventh district as we speak. Your target resides below. Do you accept or not?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mushu voice* Aw, my little babies, off to destroy people.
> 
> In canon, Kieran has been the Purple Hyacinth for six to seven years; therefore I’ve made the decision for him to start his assassin work at eighteen. Lauren is making her first kill soon because...she’s uh, particularly devoted to her training, and all that. The usual. You know.
> 
> And yes, Baby’s First Kill is in the next chapter. I’m such a proud mother.
> 
> You may be wondering how slow burn this romance will be, given how Lauren and Kieran are now in their teens. My only answers to that are: 1) they’re stupid teenagers :) 2) this fic is 30 chapters for a reason. This is no ‘workplace.’ I am going to show you just how idiotic two idiots can be. And you are coming with me.


	5. ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anything, they seem to be drawn to each other in this space where they lie, taking in each other’s presence two at a time. Comforting each other like they did as children, the words unspoken, phantom hands on phantom pulses. “I wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.”
> 
> “So you do care,” she says jokingly, but all he does is smile and point to her sword.
> 
> “I always have,” he says, walking out the door, one hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to sharpen Katoptris when you wake.”

“I told you,” insists Catherine Beaumont, “we don’t want the shipments to arrive until Tuesday of next week.”

_“That would be nearly impossible,”_ intones the voice from the other side of the line, nasal and high-pitched. _“Ardhalis’s ports are only open to our products on weekdays. What you seek is something we will not be able to deliver otherwise, Ms. Beaumont.”_

“You’re making this awfully hard for me, Juris,” she says after a beat too long, collapsing into a velvet chair worn out of decades of use. A pale, slim arm trails a finger up the notch of the gold-flecked arm, which matches nearly everything else in this mansion the Beaumonts call home - gold, gold, gold. Rusted or polished or turned harsh bronze in the candlelight, most of it a dingy metallic copper in what Ardhalis’s foggy lamplights turn dark. Whispers of a once-great empire, fleetingly showing its face in the cracks of the marble bannisters, the spiraling staircase up to a second story and third story rooms. The empty ancient bath, the water no longer coming in. The scent of cheap perfume, the smells of vinous potpourri long eradicated.

Lauren smiles to herself as she takes it all in. Sympathizers of the monarchy don’t have it that good, after all.

And besides, this place is a rat’s nest compared to Sinclair Manor.

Catherine goes on and on about the shipment markings and their delivers and when and where and why, until Lauren can no longer listen to this insipid old woman with the color leaching out of her hair by the second anymore, and drifts down from the rafters, landing on the marble tiles light as a cat. She passes right by the assassin, feather robe swishing against the cold floor, Lauren’s lithe figure hidden by a bookcase.

When Apostle Seven had given her the opportunity to take out one of the upper classes’ most infamous sympathizers to the monarchy - much less a supporter of late king Edward - she’d been all too happy to oblige, saying goodbye to Kieran in a flash. The look in his eyes, full of concern and something else she couldn’t pinpoint, was something she hadn’t bothered to mull over. The thrill of the hunt, dormant before, now runs rampant in her veins, licking at the fire of her blade. _These are your first steps._

If she succeeds, what then? Praise? The thought fills the wounds she didn’t even know she had. One step closer to revenge. One step closer to truth. Every slash of her blade is victory. 

One shot. One chance. One strike.

Catherine swings the door to her quarters shut. Lauren runs for it, and toes it open before it can close with a click. The cord attaching the phone to the wall wobbles, between the open space of the door. Lauren’s eyes dart to the gas lamps above.

With one swing of Katoptris, the lights flicker out. Catherine yelps as the lights turn off, and Lauren retreats into the hallway behind the door. Soon enough, the chandelier above her head begins to switch on and off.

“Cursed electricity,” she mutters, and presses the switch with her palms. But the leather beneath her skin does not yield, and slowly, Catherine Beaumont’s proliferating fear is swallowed up by the night, her features contorting like the wax candles above dripping puddles onto the ground from the heat of the flame. 

Unsheathing Katoptris once again, Lauren slashes at the cable between the door. A shrill scream pierces the air, and she steps back hurriedly as the woman dashes into the hallway, nearly tripping over a pair of fuzzy slippers, and descends the staircase, making for an exit. Chills run up her spine as she realizes Catherine is headed for the door - if she reports back to Apostle Seven that her mission is a _failure -_

But Catherine turns to the left, towards the living room with more spaces to hide, and her lips curl into a smile.

Alright, so maybe Seven won’t be so disappointed after all.

Fear is as potent as any perfume, lighting up the night on bat wings, sparkling stars in the midst of shadows. Catherine’s heavy breathing is easy to detect in the parlor; Lauren’s silent footing makes sure there is nothing but the sounds of the old woman’s panicked tirade echoing around the walls.

Lauren closes her eyes.

_When we take, we do not take in cold blood. We take what we must,_ Kieran had told her, once. 

She opens them, and ignores every single thought of him in her mind. 

One step back. She flies, momentarily, mid-air, and the next thing Lauren knows, her hand is clamped over Catherine’s mouth, Katoptris at the ready.

_We take what we must._

_No,_ she thinks. _I take what I_ need.

“You—”

One strike. One chance. Tonight, the Phantom Scythe takes its hands and pulls its city closer, closer to its heart, as Lauren Sinclair takes her first steps, steps back, admires the portrait she has painted.

It is only then she realizes Katoptris, in the moonlight and stained in a wash of colors shades away from her own hair, is engraved with a set of letters down the base, close to the hilt of the shortsword itself.

**_Fiat iustitia._ **

____

  
  


The gong rings three in the morning as Lauren returns to the Foxglove Compound, making her way not for the medical ward, but for her own room in the trainee quarters. Tonight, the sound is a melody to her ears, grown too used to an eerily potent silence that wraps around her as a shield.

It’s only after the trainee quarters show their faces that she realizes she’s not headed for her own dormitory, but Kieran’s. Pain lances through her left arm, and she hisses as she looks down - she’d been wounded during the invasion of Catherine’s house, apparently. Katoptris must’ve strained her muscles to the point of exhaustion. But she’s not going to tell her friend that she should’ve listened to his advice. It’s too late to turn back when her body has subconsciously sought aid at his hand; why, she doesn’t want to know.

He’s not alone, however, when she knocks on the wooden doors tiredly, creaking them open. Kieran and the girl across from him both startle in unison - the latter around nine, with spiraling dark hair and warm brown skin. Sparks form in her eyes when she sees Lauren, and a squeal whimpers past her lips. 

“She’s the one you were talking about!” she says excitedly. “But why is she all bloody?”

Kieran turns towards the sight of Lauren, and immediately shoots up off his bed, making a strangled noise. The light flaring around his room clearly shows that he isn’t as neat as she is, their quarters almost identical in appearance. “You’re back. You’re _injured._ ”

Before Lauren can protest that she isn’t, glancing down to see crimson staining her dark clothes in patches, as if someone took a particularly large paintbrush and flung drying red against her clothes and on the side of her chin, her muscles strain again, causing her to stumble against the doorframe and lean on it for support, breath coming out in harsh pants. 

“Not mine,” she says futilely. “I may have overexerted myself. That’s it.”

“You’re such an idiot,” mutters Kieran, striding over to her. “You need rest. You should’ve cleaned up - I can’t have you like this—”

“What happened to _‘I’m not going to listen to doctor’s orders’?_ ” Lauren winces again as he takes her by the shoulders, inspecting her face, her body. “I’m fine, mother. Just wanted to tell you about the mission.”

“Did it go well?” asks the girl, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Kieran sheepishly glances down at her, a rare softness in every inch of his smile. She’s never seen him act this way with anyone - much less children in daylight.

“Ah, I forgot to introduce our new inductee. The Phantom Scythe’s newest recruit, Dunya Almari.” He looks back up at her. “And yes, Lauren is who I was telling you about.”

“So she’s really a princess like you said?” 

At that, Lauren’s scowl morphs into an arrogant grin rivaling that of Kieran’s best. “Princess, huh? That proud of me, Kieran?”

“She’s exaggerating!” he snaps, clearly bested. “All I told her was that you were once on the Scythe’s most-wanted list because of - never mind,” he says, tapering off as her laughter grows, both hands clutching to the hilt of her shortsword for balance.

Dunya cocks her head to the side. “Okay, but did the mission go well?”

Lauren manages to bend down on one knee, almost at Dunya’s height. Her hair falls out of her hood in ribbons of auburn, undone from its ponytail, shrouded in gold. “It went well. And, for the record, Apostle Seven won’t be disappointed in the slightest.” She pulls back on the urge to reach out to the girl. “You’ll get used to things around here. I was like you, once. We’ll be around if you ever need us.”

“That’s great and all, darling, but we need to get you cleaned up.” She’s too shocked at the nickname - _darling -_ coarsing a path through her veins as he practically shoves her out of the room, coaxing Dunya back to her own quarters with sweetly-veiled words until she scampers back to the farthest reaches of the wing. _Darling._

“Darling?” Lauren repeats, as he takes her by the hand, pulling her over to her quarters. When he locks the door behind them, switching the lights on, she’s still waiting there, arms crossed expectantly. 

“Trying it out,” he says, grinning. “It suits you.”

“Don’t make me use Katoptris on you,” she says, unsheathing her blade. He takes one look at the bronze sword, and uses all his willpower not to gag.

“You couldn’t, because the tip’s been blunted, and secondly, that thing’s gross and probably covered in germs. Wash up. _Now._ ”

“Yes, mother!” she grumbles, storming off to the bathroom. “Don’t you lay a hand on it!”

“When I show you how to clean it, you’ll be thanking me!” he retorts, as she slams the door shut in his face.

____

She returns to her room ten minutes later, dressed in a nightgown that ends at her ankles, her hair swept up into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her own sword blinks up at her, on white cloth, next to Kieran’s own katana on black cloth. He’s been waiting for her, perched on a stool, buckets of something she can’t discern next to him. Strands of ebony fall over his face; he’s composed and disheveled all at once, the lines of worry gone for his face for only a moment. His collar is unbuttoned as usual: no matter how many times she tells him to be modest, he refuses.

“Kieran,” she whispers softly, and his eyes snap open. He looks up at her, and gestures around him.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls. “I’m going to teach you how to clean your sword. And believe me,” he says, cutting her off, “Katoptris needs it.”

“You’re so nice,” she says. “Nicest friend I’ve _ever_ hand. _Thank you._ ”

“You’re welcome.” Kieran picks up a small cloth, handing it to her. “Usually, the first step is to remove grease, but you weren’t particularly handling grease tonight.” He picks up his own katana, steady and moving in an elegant arc in his hands. “I’ll go along with you.”

She grumbles silently as she wipes the blood off of Katoptris, dumping the stained cloth in the water bucket when she’s done. Apparently, he’s also brought along thinner, which is particularly useful for his own sword - of his type, he explains. Lauren watches, fascinated, as he brings down the shiny material on the silver blade in smooth strokes.

Her shortsword is much shorter than his own, and so they share a cloth to wipe their weapons dry. Something about this ritual is intimate - far more intimate than a normal tutorial would be. Sharing a piece of himself he usually doesn’t share with anyone else, except with her.

“Not bad,” he remarks, holding both weapons in his hands. “Not bad at all.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“Anytime, darling.” She groans as he hands Katoptris back to her, the hilt sliding comfortably back into her hands as she sheathes it back into its leather hold, placing the belt back on the hook on the wall. When she turns back, he’s watching her, something oddly dark playing in his eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“How do I feel,” she repeats, and her mind drifts back to the Beaumont mansion. The hunt had been freeing. Unthinking. _Good,_ comes to mind, bone-chilling. _Fine. I don’t know._

“I think I need time to process it all,” is what leaves her lips in one breath. “But for now...I don’t feel bad.”

“That’s alright.” That pitch reaches her ears again, but this time, it’s not a lie. She knows he isn’t lying to her. If anything, they seem to be drawn to each other in this space where they lie, taking in each other’s presence two at a time. Comforting each other like they did as children, the words unspoken, phantom hands on phantom pulses. “I wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“So you do care,” she says jokingly, but all he does is smile and point to her sword.

“I always have,” he says, walking out the door, one hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to sharpen Katoptris when you wake.”

____

  
  


She doesn’t forget, because she doesn’t sleep until five in the morning.

The Apostles can scream all they want at her for waking up late, but she, frankly, knows they won’t. Due to her mission, she’s boosted her ranks in the Scythe, which means, like Kieran, they will start being lenient with her. Leniency she _needs_ for her own little mission. The shortsword twirls at her side like a companion, back and forth, as she paces the length of her room, until finally coming to a stop at the space where her armoire once was.

It’s been shoved to the side, see, in lieu of a giant board Lauren had hooked up at the age of fourteen, spools of red thread linking pictures and documents and non-descript newspaper clippings. Two years of evidence, building and building. Notes stuck on at random times of night, in fitful bursts of inspiration jolting her from her rest. _The four-fingered driver._ A leger she’d stolen from Sinclair Manor, detailing the list of staff. A set of fingerprints belonging to the mysterious Goodfellow.

The puzzle pieces slam into each other, crackling like lightning day in and day out by her hand. And still, she gets nowhere. Now that she has the city at her fingertips, she can do the impossible: finally put an end to the mystery haunting her life ever since she was taken.

Vindication comes in the form of a Messenger at her door at five fifty.

_“Your next few assignments will come in the following week,”_ he intones. _“From here on out, you may begin training privately, and will receive an official senior member status in the Scythe.”_

Only sixteen, and she’s ascended two years past her destiny, bringing it down into her hands. Lauren only gives him a nod as she turns back to her door, a small, mirthless grin at the ends of her lips.

Perhaps she’ll even receive a name, as Kieran has. But that’s the least of her desires.

As long as she gets her dearly beloved revenge, all will be right with the world.

____

Dakan Rhysmel wakes to the sight of citizens rioting in the streets. He sweeps aside the ivory curtains to see a throng of workers in gray hats and coats in a scuffle with the Ardhalis Police. Their ivory masks veil every ounce of expression in their face as they manage the crowd, grabbing men and women from behind, discarding their signs. Shouts grow louder as gunshots ring throughout the square - harmless ones, but warning shots. Smoke erupts from the sides, tearing through the chaos. 

Rage surges through him, and he paces back, walking at high speed into the hallway. The stag - the national emblem - looks down at him from the official crest installed on the wall, gleaming gold and green and purple, hyacinths rendered so lovingly one could almost smell their sweet scent.

It’s all because of them. It’s all because of _their weapon._

The king’s advisor practically breaks down the doors of the Council Room.

“Your Majesties,” he grits out, at a boiling point already, “there is another riot by the castle gates. They are worsening this time around, and it is because of our failure to control them!”

Phillip raises a hand, blonde hair gleaming from underneath his crown. He and Dakan’s military uniform are only shades of blue apart. He is too young. He should not be _here._ “Berelli. Hughes. Would you mind leading your men out? I believe I must talk to Sir Rhysmel in private.”

It is Councilman Lairelosse who objects. “We’re in the middle of a foreign arms problem with Beaubonne, how--?”

“Lairelosse.” It is Lizbeth who speaks. Only a couple of years older than Phillip, yet the furrows in her brow would not suggest as such. She carries herself under the weight of tempestuous gold and pearl and creamy whites up to her collar and down her waist and hem as light as air, tipping her chin up in the way that only the truly wealthy do. “Please leave. We must talk in private, together, to aid our own country. This is the way Ardhalis has always worked.”

And so the nine councilmen leave in order: first Berelli and Hughes, the High Councilmen, then Lairelosse, Chavassard, Martin, Pellac, Powell, Reynolds, Mosswell, and Guinet.

“Phillip,” Dakan says when they have left, for formalities have no use anymore. “You must know that—”

“I’m aware, Dakan.” He sighs, and when the crown leaves his brow, it’s as if the weight of the world leaves, too. Phillip rubs at his temples. “Hawkes hasn’t acted as a harsh enough Chief of Police. We may have to call back in Tristan Sinclair.”

“After the incident?” Dakan’s mouth turns down. “And the taking of his niece? He may not be able to return fit for duty.”

“We’ll send in an envoy anyhow.” His stare meets his. “But you and I both know why they’re rioting.”

“And that’s the problem!” he bursts out, temper spilling over. “The Phantom Scythe has been terrorizing this city for far too long. Reports have come in - the _Purple Hyacinth_ may not be the worst of our problems yet to come! Installing harsher laws and mandating a new Chief of Police will only do so much, Your Majesty!”

“Are you questioning me, Rhysmel?” Phillip’s voice is dangerously quiet. Lizbeth has not set down her crown, nor relaxed in the slightest bit. “We have already known the consequences of leniency. I remember. Do not forget _that._ ”

Edward’s death stings, even now. “My apologies.”

“Now, are you going to contact Stefan Hawkes?” 

“I’ll have an envoy sent out to him and Josephine,” Dakan says, bowing his head slightly, burdened with the weight of shame. 

“See to it that it’s rather quick.” Lizbeth again, inspecting her flawlessly-cut nails under the sharpness of daylight. “We must resolve this as quickly and swiftly as possible. And, Phillip?”

“My queen.”

“Increase the bounty on the Purple Hyacinth’s head,” he hears the woman say, as the doors close shut behind him, without a sound to be heard, muffled by velvet carpet. “I have a feeling only bigger problems lie ahead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Fiat iustitia” - “Let justice be done,”_ derived from the official motto of Ferdinand I, the Holy Roman Emperor. 
> 
> Additional lore on Katoptris: the shortsword is, in the Greek/Roman canon, a dagger, as some fans may know. Moreover, a parazonium dagger used in ritual battle, used to rally troops and was specifically for show. 
> 
> Kieran’s katana, if we really want to go into weapons-loving-hours over here, was called a _shinogi-zukuri,_ the most common blade for a katana that provides speed and cutting power. If I haven’t made it clear enough yet, I’m going to make it clear now and in future writing: our boy is mixed race in this ‘verse.
> 
> Dunya Almari’s name is a derivative from the Thousand and One Nights tale, in which Scheherazade’s sister, Dunyazad, exists. (Don’t stretch to make connections here, Dunya won’t become a main character.) I sort of lied when I said I wouldn’t reference the myth in this story - but nevertheless, I will be paying it homage just a bit. Lauren as an obvious Scheherazade figure makes me kind of icky, as it’s cultural appropriation to do so, but I’ll be throwing in Arabian Nights lore here and there. 
> 
> The plot thickens! You may have noticed that even though the story focuses on Lauren and Kieran as assassins, I’m keeping the violence to a minimum, as 1) this story is roughly PG-13, and 2) the two constants of this fic mainly focus on the conspiracy behind Ardhalis’s two rebellion groups and Lauren’s revenge/her budding relationship with Kieran. The first has begun to show its true colors, and will be the official b-subplot of this story from now on. You may also have noticed the chapter count extension from 30 to 35. Stick with me a little longer - I have things up my sleeve. 
> 
> (Let’s pray this fic doesn’t go to 50 chapters like the original plan and devours AO3 whole.)


	6. dawnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren moves to speak, but he creaks the door open further, and that’s when she sees it. 
> 
> Paper. Paper strewn everywhere on his bed, some crumpled up and discarded. Sketches of her and Belladonna and Julian, of flowers and passerby and citizens. All of them have been drawn with a furious hand, ink spilling out of the charcoal pens like flowing water, in torrents, refusing to stop until the storm has passed and all that is left is nothing but the ruins of a broken, broken boy, trying to hold the glass shards of his heart too close to him out of the fear that he will hurt everything. 
> 
> Everyone.

Messenger III is pleased with her work. 

Or at least, Belladonna thinks he is. She can’t exactly pinpoint the feelings of a man in a bird mask. It’s very hard to tell what they’re _actually_ feeling, but given that he’s called her down into the auditorium chamber of the Foxglove, which looks like some sort of morbid theater display - rows and rows of velvet seats and velvet curtains and a stage covered in crimson - she must be here for some important purpose. Her own blade matches the dark gold lining on the tassels swinging down from the rafters on the stage, back and forth, waiting for a performance. 

“You wished to see me?” she answered, voice sickly sweet. It’s a trick her mother had taught her, once: _always play the act of a delicate doll. Spin and twirl in pinks and reds and when speaking, speak with honey under your tongue. And when you strike - no one will notice._ “Although I’m a bit concerned. Where are the others? Julian and—”

_“This does not concern them,”_ he says. _“This concerns only you. Your third mission was compromised.”_

“Odd word for _I targeted two birdies instead of one._ You’re welcome.”

_“Davenport.”_ A warning sign. _“Keep this up and you will be demoted to a lower associate in the future. You have potential. I would hate to see it lost.”_

She grits her teeth, but says nothing. “I’m here for a reason. I would love to know why, sir.”

_“Luckily for you, you get a second chance.”_ He hands her a file. _“In a week’s time, your target will be active. Make sure you do right this time - you might even get a title soon.”_

The snake hilt of her blade seems to hiss up at her. “I’m better than you think. Better than the Hyacinth.”

_“Then prove it.”_ Three’s voice is unrelenting. _“There is no room for emotion here, Davenport. See to that.”_

____

  
  


The second riot to capture Le Journal’s attention also captures Lauren’s. Granted, smoke in the middle of the eleventh district would capture anyone’s. It just happens to occur when she is flying across gilded rooftops of brown and rusted bronze and gold, Ardhalis the maze beneath her feet. The territory that belongs to her, Katoptris her ever-present companion at her side. When the riot clears, finally, it’s she who crouches in the shadows, sliding down a wall easily as one would slip up and fall. The Ardhalis police are here, of course, blue uniforms moving together in tandem to control the crowd.

It’s no secret the Phantom Scythe has begun to cause more and more havoc within the city. And more havoc leads to chaos, naturally - particularly in the lower districts. But here, even in the wealthier districts, people’s voices are starting to become strained with the weight of what they’ve suppressed for so long: dissent.

She should be proud of the rebellion. Some part of her tells her to be. But all she feels is a gnawing in her gut for _more,_ the twirl of her blade, the desire to see it all crumble.

_This is the beginning of something,_ some part of her mind tells her, as she watches the civilians scatter. _Something big._

A swath of fur catches her attention halfway across the district. Lauren immediately zeroes in on it: the typical wrappings of brown fur around the Chief of Police’s coat. He’s dressed in ornate officer uniform, his clothing shades darker than his own men. A mask covers his eyes - all she can identify him with is his slightly-graying blonde hair, hidden underneath a cap. Her feet carry her closer, closer, leaping across rooftops as if they’re puddles, until she comes to a rest by the chimney of one smaller townhouse, crouching low. 

He’s in conversation with someone. Now that the riot is cleared, she can see who it is for herself - Dakan Rhysmel, the advisor to the royals. Lauren’s heartbeat roars in her ears. 

He is talking to none other than Stefan Hawkes, the Chief of Police. Hawkes. _Hawkes._

One of the men on the Phantom Scythe’s list.

But when she moves to capture her sword hilt, her dreams are instantly crushed.

“I understand, sir,” says Stefan, hanging his head low. When he lifts his mask, blue eyes like a dream look out at Rhysmel, clouded with grief. The badge lands in the man’s hands, and Stefan holds his cap low. “It’s for the best, anyhow. My wife...needs attending to. As well as my son in the academy. He will know.”

“Glad to hear about that.” A pat on the shoulder, a facade. “Send my regards to Josephine. I hope she recovers.”

“So do I.”

And just like that, Stefan Hawkes retires right in front of her eyes.

But the universe isn’t done taunting her yet, though. Lauren’s breath catches in her throat as the stars above align cruelly, directly casting a small beam of light on the one player who has been absent from the well-worn stage of her life until now. 

Auburn hair, round spectacles, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Tristan,” Dakan says as gently as he can, Stefan’s cap and badge in his hands. “Are you ready?”

Lauren looks down at the only living relative she has left, the one thing between her and absolute nothing, who sighs and relents - because of course he would.

“Thank you for having me back on short notice. I do what I must.” On goes the mask as he takes a hold of ivory and leather. A smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She is gone before any of them can see her.

____

  
  


“I need to speak to the Leader,” she breathes, sagging slightly, auburn hair cascading around her shoulders, undone. “Now. I have information I think he needs.” Lauren’s well aware she looks like a mess, plain and simple, in her black outfit and hood halfway across her head, begonia petals in a shower across her shoulders - she’d bumped into an unfortunate florist on the way back, who thankfully hadn’t seen her weapon. _“Now.”_

“The Leader is not available at the moment,” drawls Apostle Five, looking down at her. She’s one of the few women in their ranks - her gray eyes are cold spheres of nothingness boring into her own, hair combed back neatly under her hood. “If there is anything you wish to report, you should consult a Messenger, not I.”

“It’s important. It’s about the Hawkes family,” bursts out Lauren. “He needs to know that--”

“ _He_ already knows. Any new developments will reach him accordingly,” she says, voice colder than before, if possible, icing over her veins. 

“This is our chance,” Lauren says, impatience winning over her calm. “They have a weakness - an ill family member. We could interrogate Stefan, if needed, and--”

“And?” The Apostle quirks a brow up. “I told you before, Sinclair. **We are handling it.** ”

For the second time that day, her breath leaves her. 

“You’re lying,” she says, fists trembling. “How could you--”

“I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be worrying about that right now,” a male voice behind her intones, all high and mighty arrogance and depth. Lauren faces Julian head on, the boy leaning against the wall. The shuffling of Apostle Five’s feet behind her alerts her to her dismay that the woman is already gone.

“What’s going on?” she demands. Lauren narrows her eyes. “And stop looking at me like that.”

“She’s right. You shouldn’t be interfering in their business. Besides,” Julian says, pushing himself off the wall, striding towards her, “there’s a new Leader in the ranks. You won’t be able to see him otherwise.”

“He’s been replaced?” Julian’s answering smirk is all she needs.

“You didn’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “Funny. I thought you would’ve known from Kieran by now, since you trail him like a forlorn puppy anyhow.”

“I do not _follow him around,_ ” she hisses. “We’re none of your business.”

“Oh, it’s _we_ now, I see!” The joy he takes in this only serves as a conduit for her rage. Her hand itches to strike, to release, whether it be on a punching bag or his stomach. “Attached to each other so soon? You know the rules, Lauren. No formal attachment. No love. I’d hate to see you go.”

“No you won’t,” she mutters. “Your jealousy of Kieran won’t get you anywhere, _Julian._ Don’t think it isn’t written all over you. But then I guess you and Bella would have something in common, then. Two peas in a pod. Desperate for approval?”

They’re low blows. But Lauren’s done playing nice. She stopped playing nice four years ago, and she only smiles slightly when Julian steps forward, pupils blown out with anger. 

“Don’t test me. You should know better than that.”

“I could take you any time, any day. We both know it.” She shrugs. “So no, I suppose I don’t know better than that.”

The gong strikes seven at night, and Lauren whirls around. Julian steps back, still vengeful. “Kieran’s back. From what I’ve heard, you should go check on him.”

“What you heard?” One last smirk. Lauren watches as he walks backward, a hand in parting. 

“What I heard,” he repeats, turning around. “He’ll need you, just like you need him, which is _weak._ So go.”

She doesn’t bother to retort as she scurries down the halls, footsteps silent as always, as she makes her way for the foyer of the Foxglove Compound, heart in her throat. 

____

Her worry isn’t ill-founded, but it’s not quite gone to waste either - her other half doesn’t look as terrible as she’d thought, as Julian had made it seem so, but he looks as if he’s walked through a storm and back. There is no light in his eyes, which scars Lauren to the bone. This is not the Kieran she knows.

“Are you alright?” comes tumbling out of her mouth first, even though she knows he’s clearly not. Oddly enough, he seems...fine, almost. Bare-faced, clean, a trench over his broad frame. The only thing that gives away his nervous ticks are the twitch of his clearly tense mouth and clenched fists. 

He doesn’t answer, and it’s only when they’re standing face-to-face, foreheads touching, that she realizes he’s breathing in heavily, eyes still blank.

“Kieran,” she says, tone increasing in urgency. “Kieran, please, _talk to me._ ”

All he does is murmur something under his breath she can’t quite catch.

“I can’t hear you.” Impulsively, she reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, which makes him startle. 

“Need...mind off things.”

“Kier.” The nickname comes to mind, flows smoothly off her tongue as if it was always meant to be there. “What do you need?”

He grabs her hands, and instantly, she clenches her teeth as his fingers shift over her pulse, breathing in the scent of soap on his skin. 

“My sketchbook,” he says hoarsely, drawing in a ragged breath. “I need it.”

“What _happened?_ Julian said you’d gone out, I tried asking a passing Messenger, they wouldn’t tell me anything--”

_“Lauren.”_ He sounds like he’s close to hyperventilating, and she can’t help but gasp slightly as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, squeezing her clothed arms. “Please. Please just get me to my room. I need - I need my sketchbook.”

“Okay.” She nods, and slowly moves her grip to hold his waist, the other hand dragging his arm over her shoulders. “Okay, I’ll take you there. Just walk with me.”

“Yeah.” Kieran’s head lolls to the side, and warning bells flair up in her system as she walks faster, strands of hair falling into his face like strands of night. When had his hair gotten this long, long enough to comb through and tuck into a ponytail or bun? What had she not noticed about him until now? “Yeah...I’ll walk with you.”

_“Stay with me,”_ she hisses in his ear, tapping him furiously. “We’re not far. Come on. I’ll tell you about my day. Fair?”

“Sure.” The light is gone, gone from his eyes. Fear runs through her, a rapid river that never ceases. The boy she knows is gone. All is left is a husk, the Purple Hyacinth with mute eyes, eyes that speak of nothing but terror. A small stain is on his neck.

Something terrible has happened. Something terrible has happened to him.

“I saw my uncle.” Lauren swallows harshly as they round a corner, as her steps speed up, to bring him to where he needs to be. The lanterns shine above. “I didn’t know what to make of it at first. I was returning from a mission - and there he was, would you believe it? He’s older now. I haven’t seen him in years. He was adamant on protecting the people, as always.”

“That’s nice.”

It’s not working. Whatever she’s doing to distract him isn’t working, and Lauren hoists him by the waist again, adjusting her grip. He’s terribly heavy, but he needs her more than ever right now. Ten steps to his door. She twists the doorknob, and that’s when he stumbles in, clutching at the wall for support.

_He’ll need you, just like you need him--_

“I - do you want me to stay?” She can’t think clearly anymore, emotion has clouded both their judgement. “Please. I can help you--”

“Not now. Later.” 

She sees only a flurry of charcoals and papers before the door is slammed shut in her face.

____

  
  


She has to wait an hour before he lets her in.

What meets her then is a pair of sapphire eyes, not quite empty as before, but somber. Lauren moves to speak, but he creaks the door open further, and that’s when she sees it. 

Paper. Paper strewn everywhere on his bed, some crumpled up and discarded. Sketches of her and Belladonna and Julian, of flowers and passerby and citizens. All of them have been drawn with a furious hand, ink spilling out of the charcoal pens like flowing water, in torrents, refusing to stop until the storm has passed and all that is left is nothing but the ruins of a broken, broken boy, trying to hold the glass shards of his heart too close to him out of the fear that he will hurt everything. 

Everyone.

“I don’t know what happened,” Lauren whispers, rubbing at the bags under her eyes. The midnight bell chimes. “But I want to be with you anyhow.”

Silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Kieran tugs at his nightshirt, and opens the door wider, allowing her to cross over.

“They’re beautiful.”

“I could do better,” he says, and she snorts. At that, she sees him crack a small smile, and her heart soars, but then it fades, and he’s left slumped against the wall, arms crossed. She decides to perch herself on the cushions by the bed, staying clear of the drawings.

“I’m sorry for throwing you out earlier.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t thinking. I just needed the space.”

“I get it. You don’t need to apologize.” Part of her screams that no, she doesn’t get it, and that she’s lying blatantly to his face, but sometimes white lies are necessary. And yes - so what if it is a weakness - he _needs_ her now.

“No, I do.” He crosses the room, sitting next to her. The low light of the gas lamp by his bed casts waves of scarlet and orange over their faces, causing her auburn hair to turn a rich crimson. Kieran inhales deeply, as if gearing up to force out a deep, stubborn secret.

“Lauren?”

“Hmm?”

“You called me Kier earlier.” He smiles, a genuine one appearing this time. “Does this mean I get permission, darling?”

“Call me whatever you want,” she says, and looks down rapidly, biting her lip. He falls silent too, clearly shocked at the admission.

“Very well.” A bit of that familiar assurance settles back into his figure, but disappears when he nudges his shoulder against hers, causing her to look back up at him. 

“The Apostles consulted each other this morning,” he says after a while. “They...have begun promoting me to risker missions. Missions that involve more than one person.”

Pieces of the puzzle begin arranging themselves in Lauren’s head. “They said,” he continues, and she watches as his hands start shaking again, “that they needed the most _monstrous_ of all to carry out what was necessary for the revolution.”

She winces, gripping the sheets tighter. “Kieran.”

He holds up a hand. “Tonight, Lauren…” Kieran hangs his head. “Tonight, I was assigned a family on Hanbury Street.”

Lauren takes a sharp intake of breath at the mention. A family. An entire family. _Children._ The thoughts come pouring, one after another - how had he - how could he - _how could he,_ hisses the worst parts of her mind. _He is a monster, to do such things--_

_No he’s not,_ she reminds herself forcefully. _He’s the boy who saved me._

“I did terrible things,” he said, laughing. “I did terrible things. _Awful ones._ Do you know what they wanted as evidence? Do you know, Lauren? What they make their most valued killers do? They want _proof,_ ” he practically growls, and she shivers. 

It’s only then that she realizes the glimmer in his eyes is not the light returning - it is the verge of tears.

She rests a hand on his back, in between his shoulderblades. “You’re human.” And when he curls in on himself, she forces him to look at her, grabbing at his chin. “Do you understand me? You’re the most human person I’ve ever met. I would know. I’ve seen you do things for me,” she says, and Lauren’s voice wobbles. “I know you’d do anything for anyone. Don’t you dare forget that.”

He still continues to say nothing.

“What do you want?” she asks, softly, because that is all she can give him - the softer things. An attempt to chase away the nightmares. 

“I want it to go away,” he whispers, after some beats of silence, and that is when he loses all composure, her shelter falling into the shadow of her own, head in her lap, his hand leaving imprints of warmth on her crossed leg. This time, she doesn’t resist stroking his hair, and he closes his eyes at the touch. “I want it all to go away.”

Lauren sighs as Kieran closes his eyes. A lullaby comes to mind - subconsciously, almost. Perhaps her mother used to sing it, back when she was younger.

So she starts to hum the melody, slightly throaty from years of disuse, but he settles into her embrace anyhow, as she continues stroking his hair, with each beat, chasing away the bloodier shadows of his present, until he finally begins to fall into an easy slumber.

_“À la claire fontaine, m'en allant promener,”_ she sings, watching as his eyelids flutter shut. _“J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle, que je m'y suis baigné.”_

They fall asleep like that later, curled in each other’s arms.

  
_“Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_   
_Jamais je ne t'oublierai.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Entire PH Fandom: So, Luna, how hurt/comfort is this fic gonna be--  
> Me, typing at Maximum Overdrive: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
> 
> Yes, Hanbury Street happened in XX24. Yes, I’m moving it down three years early just for the a n g s t.
> 
> (Additionally, Lauren’s lullaby translation: _At the fountain of clarity, I walked and found beautiful waters, which I bathed myself in. I have loved you for the longest time; I will never forget you._ )


	7. warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to collapse to her knees at the looks on their faces. But she does not, and holds her head high, sweat trickling down her brow as the Messenger nods, once. 
> 
> Perhaps this fight was what she needed after all. Kieran can’t take - it’s in his nature, despite his talent. His artistic skill says as much. The pure sanctity with which he treats ink and paper says all she needs to know. But she is no preserver, like he is. The blade reminds her again and again that she is nothing but a thief born out of ruin, built for nothing but the taking of hearts. 
> 
> It is not the Purple Hyacinth who is the ruthless one, nor the heartless one.

Lauren felt bad for leaving him so soon - but, then again, she’d hardly had a choice but to do so. There are demands to be met in the Scythe, after all, and since word has gotten out of her successful missions, Julian and Belladonna have shot up right alongside her as her competitors, gunning for senior positions, especially the latter. 

And that’s what leads her to be here, sword in hand, facing down a vipress in human form. It isn’t exactly the best time for a fight; her mind is muddled and foggy, which is a surefire weakness in battle, where every thought and fear must be wiped away. She can still feel the phantom imprint in wisps around her - she’d woken up to him cradling her close to his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist, the position strangely intimate. Her hand curls around the hilt of Katoptris tightly, squeezing cold bronze for some mockery of clarity.

“Distracted?” taunts Belladonna, and Lauren’s eyes narrow as she snaps back to reality, both of them on opposite sides of the salt circle drawn in white around the mat, their swords facing each other.

“You wish,” is all she says, gritting her teeth as she strikes first on offense. Lauren’s temper is a sensitive thing today, malleable to the touch, rocketing up and down at the slightest insult, the slightest offense. It’s why Bella’s sword nearly cuts through her clothing as she leaps back, her shortsword extended behind her with one hand. 

With Katoptris, she naturally has shorter range, and to attack Belladonna, she needs to close in, distract her opponent instead. It will do no good for her if Lauren manages to let her see that she’s gotten under her skin. Blue eyes flash through her head as a reminder, and she twirls Katoptris in her hand once more, rushing forward. This time, Katoptris collides against silver in a satisfying crash of metal, and Lauren manages to sweep the other girl’s feet from under her, intending to strike at her guarded chest. Belladonna rolls out from the side, toeing the edge of the salt circle. Her ponytail is undone, clear frustration visible on her face. 

Lauren barely has enough time to block the incoming attack from behind her. This time, she comes face-to-face with a set of furious green eyes, Julian’s staff falling to his side as Lauren moves into the middle of the circle, watching both opponents circle her like prey.

The Messengers like challenges. She does not like the Messengers in the slightest.

When they both attack at the same time, Lauren switches to defense, and begins to play the long game. Katoptris slides against Julian’s staff, tosses back Belladonna’s sword tip. She revolves like a dancer, never losing focus with the timing of her heartbeat as she parries both their weapons, shoving them back with a vengeance. Julian’s staff stabs at her side, and she grits her teeth, rotating her sword around his staff until she disarms him, only momentarily. Her sword is level with her eyes, pointed directly at them.

And slowly, Lauren crooks a finger.

_Come on._

Belladonna charges forward first, Julian at the rear. It’s like watching three dancers in a waltz, three chess pieces around a board, the centerpiece this close to becoming queen in any case. Calm rushes over her, fills her to the brim. Her mind drifts back to a flute and a garden - there is nothing but the thrill of the hunt, the meditation state of battle. A mansion. A riot. Her few missions, but the moments in between where she is able to let go.

Julian is easy to defeat, first. Lauren stabs her shortsword into his staff, which breaks and splinters down the middle. He’s shoved back by the blunt part of her sword, scattering salt as he falls out of the circle. Silver meets gold as soon as he does, however. 

Belladonna doesn’t fall immediately after, but eventually. She’s enraged now, her movements sloppy. Against her better judgement, Lauren’s pride swells in her chest. Katoptris clatters against the sword easily, the imprint of a viper colliding with the floor. 

She wants to collapse to her knees at the looks on their faces. But she does not, and holds her head high, sweat trickling down her brow as the Messenger nods, once. 

Perhaps this fight was what she needed after all. Kieran can’t take - it’s in his nature, despite his talent. His artistic skill says as much. The pure sanctity with which he treats ink and paper says all she needs to know. But she is no preserver, like he is. The blade reminds her again and again that she is nothing but a thief born out of ruin, built for nothing but the taking of hearts. 

It is not the Purple Hyacinth who is the ruthless one, nor the heartless one.

_“Better,”_ he drones. _“Davenport. Hawthorne. The auditorium. An announcement will be made shortly. We have made the decision to support one of our senior members rising within the ranks.”_

She bites back on a cruel grin. Even their death glares can’t dim her mood as she strides out the doors, swinging Katoptris like a baton.

____

  
  


The auditorium is surrounded by Messengers, all of whom have their bird masks on, blank and depthless eyes staring outward at the incoming attendees, varying in age and height, all with their weapons at the ready. The ivory within Lauren’s hands seems to mock the Ardhalis Police - it’s a near perfect replica of their officer’s masks, intended to be worn at the announcement. The shuffling of robes announces the presence of an Apostle on the stage, microphone at the ready.

She hopes he doesn’t take note of her and Kieran walking side by side, hand in hand, their swords strapped to their backs. Ever since last night, they’ve been inseparable against all odds, drawn to each other, magnets of opposite ends. And some part of her knows it is surefire weakness - but she’s never been lawful. 

When they perch themselves in the front row, Belladonna and Julian on either side of them - Lauren can spot Dunya and two younger recruits behind the pews - the Apostle chooses that time to speak, tapping the mic.

“I’m sure you’re all aware of why we’ve gathered here today,” she says, voice clipped and direct. “For the past few months, our older members have carried out some of the biggest missions in this organization’s history. And _we—”_ she says, pausing for effect, “could not be prouder in the steps they have taken in their training to get where they are.”

Silent nodding. Lauren’s heart beats a rhythm as she knocks her knuckles against Kieran's quietly, him rapping a pattern on her skin. 

_I’ve got you._

_You’ve got this._

“Today, we welcome another ascending member. She has been a long-time favored candidate - even at times when it did not seem as such.”

Oh, how a title will change everything she knows and loves. But it will be worth it. With Kieran at her side, her steadfast companion as both of them carry out parallels of each other’s bloody lives, it will all pay off. 

“Today, we welcome another member into our ranks.” Silence, as poignant as ice. And for once, the Apostle lifts her mask, and smiles.

“In a nest of vipers, one must also be a viper to survive. Rise, our Golden Viper. Rise, Belladonna Davenport.”

A thunder of applause shakes the room, the pink-haired woman rising to her feet, rouged lips curled in a smile. Lauren can only watch with nothing but numb shock as she welcomes the praise flowing around her. 

_Everyone else has moved on except—_

“Lauren.” Kieran crashes through her vertigo. “Lauren, are you alright?”

Anger comes as a first defense instead of pity. _“Do I look like I am?”_

And as always, guilt comes as a consequence of the storm. Kieran’s face crumples, former concern replaced with bated breath. “I didn’t mean that. I knew you wanted this more than anything else.” _Weak,_ echoes Julian’s voice in her head as they stare at each other, seconds away from their fragile bond snapping and fraying. _You need him and he needs you, which is weak._ Perhaps this mistake really is her undoing.

“You’re right,” is what comes out next, cold and hard as the blade of her shortsword. “I did want this more than anything.” 

She doesn’t give him the pleasure of answering as she turns around, meaning to part the crowd, ripping off her ivory mask as she does so. But Lauren’s brain barely has time to chart out a path as he yanks her wrist back as the two of them struggle in the aisles, the remaining members already in a beeline for Belladonna.

Hot rage surges in her throat. If she doesn’t get out of here now, there might as well be a fight at the ready - at her hands. And Kieran is _not_ helping.

“This doesn’t mean it’s all over,” he hisses, wincing as she yanks her hand out of his grip.

“It doesn’t, but it’s a setback. You wouldn’t know of those, though, would you?” Her voice comes out high and accusing, a low baritone. “Always in their light, in _their_ praise.”

“Their praise,” he says numbly, an echo. “You think I want that?”

“I don’t exactly see you cowering from your bloody deeds,” she snarls, and she knows it’s a low blow, but if it doesn’t _hurt--_

“You think I wanted this?!” Kieran bends low, voice raspy against her ear, as she shivers. “You think I wanted any of this? Would you like to become like me, Lauren? Already so used to the nightmares and the darkness that by the time you don’t wake in the middle of the night desperate for air - you realize you’ve already gone too long without. Perhaps then?”

“I already know the darkness,” she retorts back. “Don’t you dare pretend like I don’t.”

“You’re not _me,_ ” he practically spits. “You don’t want to _become me._ ”

“Why not?!” and this time, the honesty of it all is what makes him step back, the horror on his face palpable, in the tautness of his jaw. “Why not, _Kieran_ ,” she says. “We were made this way. There is an end, and that end is in annhilation. There is _nothing else._ ”

“And you want this?” He’s shaking now, she realizes. _Weak, weak, weak._

“If only you knew how badly I want everything,” she hisses back, voice curling like a purr around the edges. “I have my reasons. I know what I am. You don’t.”

“And what are you?” Breathless, demanding. “What are you, and what am I, then?”

Tearing apart viciously, stretching at the seams, two pulses off-beat, a harmony and melody in discord.

“You’re this city’s destruction,” she says, clipped and bare and plain and laid-out for all of him to see. “And I am _their_ weapon.”

Ink and charcoal, blade and blood.

One in one territory, the other in hers, separate but whole, whole but separate.

“You want to be.”

Not a question. She tips her head up, gently. “You already know what I want. And I know what you want.”

“You know me so well, darling,” he snaps, and this time, she doesn’t fear the rage in his voice. “So well. So why don’t I take a high and mighty guess at what you want this time, hm? Let’s start, for one: _revenge._ I know where your heart lies. Ever since you’ve learned of the Snapdragon’s true motives. I know what you’re after.”

“Spot-on,” she says. _“Spot on._ Well done, really. I’ll return the favor, I guess. You never wanted this from the start. Even when the truth lies in front of you, you don’t want to see it. And you are throwing all of it _away._ ”

“Would you like to clarify on that last part?”

“You’re just as much of a weapon as I am.” Lauren crosses her arms, Katoptris pressing into her spine. “And you’re doing nothing with it.”

“Say that again.” His hand is clenched on his katana hilt. “Say that again.”

This time, she hesitates, but only for a second. Maybe it’s better this way. No weakness, no attachment.

“You,” she whispers, gently as if putting him to sleep once more, “are a _coward._ ”

And scene.

One walks away, the other stays, as the curtains fall shut on a stage on top of the world.

____

  
  


He twirls a begonia in his hand as he makes his way up to the garden. Not the large expanse of green - no, the smaller one that resides just on the roof of the Foxglove, above Ardhalis. And he finds her there, eventually, after a while, perched on the edge of the compound, legs swinging freely, sword lying at her side.

Their training has taught them both to walk without sound, to be silent at all odds, but he knows she can tell when he appears next to her. Her hair is unbound, in the air like a scarlet banner. His own has gotten long enough to tie up - and so it is, for the first time in years, a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Both of them don’t bother to speak as the sun envelops them in swaths of amber and russet, the slow movement of the star gradually casting a low blue over the sky.

She’s the one who speaks first. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Kieran dips his head. “I know you are.”

“It wasn’t like I wasn’t frustrated with you. I just--” She throws her hands up in the air, grunting. “I spent four years of my life fixated on something that might not happen for another couple of years. Bella’s cold and calculating and ambitious with her missions. I wasn’t - I wasn’t even _that_ enough.”

“You do what you do in the name of your parents,” he asks, and it’s a forlorn question. “Don’t you?”

Silence only overtakes her for a second this time. “That’s part of the reason. Rebellions...they’re not peaceful, Kieran.”

“I think both of us understand that better than most.” He inhales as he stands on the edge, feet rocking back and forth. “So you believe in it, then? The greater cause?”

“Do you?” Lauren looks up at him, a small plea in the recesses of her eyes. 

_I can’t believe in anything else,_ bubbles up in his throat. _I was taught - you don’t know what I’ve been through - they never treated me like they treated you, because you were a last-minute addition, and I was--_

He bites down on it. “Don’t we both?”

She nods, closing her mouth again. Their truce is still uneasy, but the former anger that lasted beneath the two of them exists no more. Dusk is quickly approaching - a reminder of what time of day they occupy, of their territory coming into place. In one swift motion, she pulls herself up, standing next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

Kieran slides the flower into the space above her ear like clockwork. “I don’t want to be like you,” she murmurs. “But there are other things I need.”

“I know.” The millions of words unspoken between them. “I know what you need. Which is why I’ve been thinking of something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I have an assignment tonight,” he says slowly, and watches as she meets her own mirthful gaze, lips slowly arching into a grin. “And, perhaps, if you’d be willing to accompany me, they would see how effective you are.”

“Are you,” she breathes, “saying what I think you’re saying?”

His answering smirk is all she needs. 

“Well?” Kieran holds out his hand. “Ready to take what’s ours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begonias mean 'beware'. Twice I've used this flower with Lauren now - I don't think I have to elaborate on why :)
> 
> So, hmm...what was once so fluffy isn't so fluffy anymore, is it? Admittedly, tension was bound to show up even as these two grew up and shared the same goal - but don't really now, actually, which is quite fascinating to explore. Will their tension last despite their bond? I wrote this chapter as a shorter one on purpose because you'll see a very crucial defining moment in their relationship in the next. But in the long run... **sorry for the hurt.** Tee hee.
> 
> Also, Snapdragon is canon? Will be adding in the lore 54 gave us. B-Suplot Conspiracies and Mysteries is living her best life over here, even though ya girl is terrible at writing mystery (my fic attests for it). ALSO - character tags. Fear not, fellow stans. You'll see a certain duo show up soon. But in a way they've never shown up before. Hoo boy, am I ready to jump you all with THIS.


	8. scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is her destiny, shrouded in darkness.

Kieran had been assigned to take down Adrian Chantal, a high-ranking government official with connections to the High Council of Ardhalis. Interestingly enough, Lauren knew the Chantals well - in fact, they were close friends of the Sandman family - and this wasn’t a simple coincidence, given how Abel Sandman had been her family’s driver and close comrade. He’d also been involved in their deaths, which gave Lauren a personal motive of their own.

The first order of operations she decided, therefore, was to consult the Scythe’s current list of members, and secondly, to reveal the four years’ worth of crucial information, however little, she had collected all this time to Kieran, even if sharing this part of herself felt more vulnerable than anything; treading on eggshells and broken glass both. But they were already close to discovering each other’s darker selves, if they didn’t already. There would be no more damage another secret undone could do.

And that’s what leads them to both of them locked in her quarters, with Kieran pacing back and forth in front of the affectionately-named Investigation Board (Lauren had objected to the name, saying it made them sound like Sherlock and Watson, Kieran had promptly bugged her until she agreed) and Lauren perched on the edge of her four-poster bed, thoughtfully tapping the edge of a pen against her cheek.

“From what I’ve gathered, the Phantom Scythe’s attempting to climb up the ranks until they are eventually able to assassinate the High Council - not the monarchy first, as everyone thinks. You disable the government at hand--” he says, pausing for effect, “--you disrupt the order of things. The rulers will become nervous, which would make them vulnerable to an eventual assassination attempt not long after. It’s worse than having their king killed right under their nose, because at least then the queen could temporarily hold the throne as regent until their son became old enough. Taking out Chantal tonight makes sense in the larger picture of things because they’re also undoing the upper class. Your family friends, too.”

“And how long have you thought this through, exactly?” She raises an eyebrow. “For someone who just began theorizing with me seconds ago, you seem to have a plan.”

**“I’m just naturally intuitive.”** He smiles. She does not smile back. Kieran pouts. “What, you think you’re the only one awake at one at night?”

“Good to know we’re both insomniacs.” Lauren waves her hand. “The only problem here is that the Sandmans - Abel - is alive. I heard a Messenger discussing as much. He’s the Scythe’s property now. They know what I am. Julian comes from an upper class family, too. They’re pushing me against my family’s former allies. You’d think that would lead to a rebellion on my part.”

“But it isn’t,” he says, with mischief in his eyes, “because they’ve already got you under their thumb.”

“For now,” she says, and it’s a throwaway line, but she doesn’t miss the small spark of something in his eyes before he turns away.

“So, if we took out Chantal tonight, and also happened to get more information on the families that did or didn’t work for your family, we could take out two birds with one stone,” Kieran muses, shoulders straight and back arched like a commander in charge of some far-off war. “It would also lead to your probable promotion.”

“And the two of us?”

“And the two of us,” he continues, “on the same playing field, free to uncover the lies that so taint this city darkly.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you have a flair for the dramatic?” Lauren asks, chuckling darkly as he taps her sheathed sword with his katana. Kieran shrugs in response, grinning.

“Just give me a few minutes,” he says, stretching. “I have a few flowers I need to pick up on the way there.” He startles as she grabs his wrist, fishing for the familiar sweet scent of flowerbuds in her pocket, until she holds a single pressed purple hyacinth in her hand, waving it around.

“Came prepared,” and bumps her forehead against his like when they were kids, purposely diverting his attention away from the flower, knowing what it does to him. In one swift motion, Lauren closes her hand over the back of his nape and kisses the top of his hair. When they part, they’re both gaping slightly, an unfamiliar heat rushing through her veins. He won’t stop looking at her.

She clears her throat. “Who’s the mother now?”

“Apparently both of us, _mon amour,_ ” he rasps, and she can’t help a squeak escaping from her lips as he brushes his mouth over her knuckles, over a small bruise from where she’d been wielding Katoptris earlier. Red swells over the pale canvas of her cheeks, and Lauren vaults a pillow at his head to break the unbearably tense ice between them. 

“Get _off,_ you bloody idiot.”

“Don’t be late,” he says in a sing-song voice as he slings his weapon over his back, waving a hand as he closes the door behind her. “Foyer in ten minutes. Try and get me out of your head before then.”

**_“I hate you!”_ **she yells, only breaking off into laughter when the door swings shut.

____

  
  


She lands only a second later than him on the top of the church chapel.

Kieran has chosen attire that wouldn’t seem out of place for a civilian. A long navy coat with split tails over a loose shirt barely covering his chest with a sharp v-cut held together only by a criss-cross of string, dark pants, steel-toed boots, and his katana at his side. He doesn’t need a disguise - the entire city knows who he is, appearance or not.

Lauren has gone the opposite direction. In her all-black attire, she looks like a wraith. A hood and mask over the lower half of her face, the tunic and long sleeves stretching over her slim body like a glove. Belts hitching up a set of men's dress pants tucked into boots that reach up to her knees, Katoptris strapped to her back. Fingerless gloves wind over her hands, the only spark of color in her outfit from her eyes, or the small strands of auburn that poke out of her hood.

He is the noticeable one; she is not, they are both deadly as any weapon.

_12:34,_ reads the grandfather clock in the distance. A bell chimes somewhere, and a lone wind blows on the rooftops of the city.

Chantal’s house is only blocks away in the eleventh district, near the Nightingale Park. He will be home in approximately ten minutes, which gives them nearly five minutes to set up a trap and be ready for him. The only thing she hasn’t made sure about with Kieran is their agreement to leave the other members of the Chantals alone.

But if any of them wake up and interfere--

Lauren cracks her knuckles. She’ll take care of it. She will.

“Three,” Kieran mutters under his breath, “two…”

“One,” she whispers, and she is--

\-- _flying--_

_\--_ across rooftops like she never has before. Kieran and her run side by side, never missing a beat, in sync like they’ve practiced this a million times over. What was lonely but free is now full of hot chaos and _wild,_ wild as a wilderness, like rushing through the treetops of a forest, being swept under by the current of a dangerous wave, never reaching air, all-consuming. He is with her. 

And nothing can stop them because of it. 

When they lock eyes for only a second, she knows he can feel it too. The infinity of the hunt. Lauren can practically sense his anticipation, equal to hers, underneath the veil of the night.

Two blocks down. They vault over a chimney like dancers, soaring through the stars, landing on the balcony of the mansion. It’s slightly taller than Sinclair mansion, Gothic in design almost, dark and painted in blacks and browns, curtains whistling in the night. Private guards stand on the exterior, but they pay no heed to two figures in the moonlight creeping onto the topmost balcony, flowerpots shivering barely as they both land on pillars of marble, side by side.

“After you, my lady,” Kieran says, voice a low timbre. He holds out a hand as he stands on the balcony, helping her down. When they’re both inside the mansion, a parlor room stretching out in front of them, it’s only then she unsheathes Katoptris, the sword’s inscription shining in the light.

_Surely some revelation is at hand--_

“Where, then?” The voice that comes out of her mouth is hers, but not hers. 

_The darkness drops again; but now I know--_

“Here, of course,” comes the response. Their fingers interlock. “You know the drill.”

She does, and tugs her hood back on as she slips into the shadows sliding over the walls of the parlor. Kieran swings himself onto the couch expertly, taking care to touch nothing with his gloved hands as he sits on the far end, at ease, the side of his head resting on his raised fist. This is how she knows who in front of her is no longer Kieran White: but instead the Purple Hyacinth, the mask on his face a cold, sneering thing. Gone is all the warmth and the easy teasing - it is now replaced by something devastatingly devoid of all true emotion.

She resists the urge to shiver as a man walks in, in about his mid-thirties, rubbing at his damp brown hair with a towel. The second he sees Kieran sitting there, he stumbles back, the cloth dropping to the floor with a faint _thump._

“Relax,” says Kieran, voice low and frosted over. He spins a balisong in one hand - where had he gotten that? - lips curling into a cruel smile. “I won’t hurt you just yet, Adrian.”

“You’re him,” the man stutters, trembling. “You’re - you’re _him_ \--”

“I do like a man of culture,” her friend says, arching a brow as the balisong sings in between his fingers, the blade sliding up and down in circles. “Especially one who knows who I am. But really. On a night like this? All I need is a companion.” He motions to the seat across from him. “Would you be willing to give the poor Purple Hyacinth a minute of your precious time?”

Lauren’s nails are nearly digging into the skin of her palms. _This isn’t him. This isn’t him, it’s not--_

“I...I don’t…”

His sneer grows wider. Adrian freezes in time as a throwing star hits the wood of the door behind him, barely grazing his ear.

“I really don’t like asking a second time.”

Adrian sits. On cue, Lauren begins to shift closer to the door, heart thundering in her ears. She needs to keep her mind calm. She must, for both of them, if this is going to work. When she nears the door, something on the bookshelves catches her eye. A ledger with a list of names poking out.

How convenient. 

“What do you want?”

“It’s simple, really,” drawls Kieran. “What you love most. Your work. Tell me all about it. And don’t make me clarify.”

Adrian swallows visibly. “The law cracking down on organized crime already passed two days prior. Neither Lairelosse nor Berelli and Hughes - the two High Councilmen - can undo it. We’re going to catch you all one way or another. You particularly.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” He holds a hand to his heart. “I’m wanted. How nice. But I don’t like false promises. You should know that of all people.”

“We will. That - it isn’t a lie!”

“Well, of course it isn’t, but you can’t believe it’ll happen now,” Kieran says. “After all, we’re part of your society, aren’t we?”

“What do you mean by that?” Adrian demands breathlessly. Kieran only laughs in response, mirthlessly.

“You’ll figure it out eventually.” He crosses his legs. “Tell me, Adrian. You’re a rather heartfelt supporter of the monarchy, aren’t you? Evening teas with Lizbeth going well?”

**“I’m not that close to the royal family,”** he insists. It’s only then Lauren catches his attention, waving a finger. He frowns, only for a split second, but then his eyes widen by a fraction of a centimeter.

_How can you--?_

_I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. He’s lying. Believe me._

Kieran’s lips thin. “So they aren’t going that well.”

“That’s not what I meant! I--” He breaks off. “Look, I don’t know what you want, but you’re not going to get any information on how to disrupt the Council or the monarchy from me!” He begins backing towards the door, and that’s when they lock eyes again, nodding. **“And none of the other upper-class families, or their hires, or whatever, so if you’re looking for that--”**

Lauren promptly wraps a hand around his mouth, Katoptris at his stomach. He freezes in her hold, Kieran standing there in the moonlight, both assassins cornering him.

“Where...the _hell_ did you come from?”

“Don’t worry about that,” she says, and her voice is worn from slight disuse, like salt against firewood. “Just concentrate on not dying for me. What do you know about the Sinclairs? Their hires? You’re familiar with theirs, aren’t you?”

**“I don’t know what you’re--”** Adrian breaks off into a whimper as the blade touches his throat.

“I asked a question, Chantal. Answer me, or you’ll regret it. And don’t bother lying. I can read your mind, darling,” she purrs, laughing internally as Kieran’s lips quirk up. “Your deepest darkest fears and secrets.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Wanna bet?” 

Katoptris digs deeper. Adrian hisses, squirming in her grasp. “Fine - _fine!_ There’s a ledger on the bookcase. Why you’re so interested in the Sinclair’s hires I don’t know, but we know the Sandmans well. He was another double agent - a Snapdragon former.”

He splutters as she tightens her grip around his neck harder. _“What about the Snapdragon?”_

“Barely loyal to the Scythe, for all intentions and purposes. Alexander was the one who--”

Yelling in the distance all but silences her. Adrian uses the opportunity to try and twist out of her grip. Kieran moves first, but she locks the door behind her, turning around the same time he does - and both their swords make quick work of their target.

Crimson stains the floor, Lauren quickly rushing over to her partner. “Let’s get out of here. He alerted them, how, I don’t know, but--”

“Perfect.” Kieran nods, all the facade gone from his face. He tosses the hyacinth on Adrian’s corpse, pausing for a second as they make for the balcony. Lauren frowns. 

“What?!”

“Leave your hood off,” he croaks out, and grabs her hand as they run for the balcony, vaulting off barely in time for the guards to come crashing in, bullets firing everywhere. Too late, she doesn’t notice how he bends over in agony for a second, or how he hisses through his teeth, as they fall to the ground, rolling deftly and ducking into a maze of alleyways until the sounds of sirens are long gone.

“What was that about my hair?” she asks, once they’re slumped over in a dark alley on the edge of the tenth district. 

“So they notice you,” he whispers, and Lauren isn’t fast enough to catch him as he slides down the wall, clutching at his side.

He’s been wounded. Panic overtakes her for a second before she rushes over, breathing in agony. 

“I should take you to the medical ward,” she warns. Lauren grits her teeth as her hands flutter over Kieran’s wound; it doesn’t look that bad, but the bullet could’ve caused internal bleeding. To make sure, she steadies her hands on either side, applying pressure. He doesn’t scream, which is good - there doesn’t seem to be a bullet lodged anywhere - and when she presses down on bare skin, all he does is hiss, her fingertips staining. 

“I don’t need the medical ward, I need you,” he breathes, wincing as he tries for a half-hearted smirk. “You can take care of me. Right, _mon amour?"_

“Stop with the teasing,” she exclaims, panic overriding her thoughts. “I don’t know if I can fix this, I don’t need you dying on me, either!”

“They’ll kill me if I walk in like this. The Purple Hyacinth, wounded on a mission? This isn’t like last time, Lauren. I could die.”

“Then let me take you home!” she yells, but all he does is grab her hand, squeezing tight.

“I’m not going to die,” he breathes, coughing. “You’re here. I’m going to be fine. Now _listen._ You have a first aid kit in your belt. There’s enough gauze in there to patch me up.” His forehead bumps against hers, and she breathes in time with him, skin to skin, auburn to ebony night. “I know you can help me.”

She bites down on a protest. 

“Okay.” Lauren starts scrambling for bandages and a gauze patch. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

“It’s you,” he mutters weakly, the encouragement not lost on her. Her cheeks heat as she runs her hands over tan skin, applying pressure to stop the flow, steadily layering gauze on the wound. “Of course I’ll be alright.”

“You - back there,” she breathes, as she applies the last of the gauze, holding it down as she rummages for a longer strip of cloth. “The way you threatened Adrian. It was--”

“It was what?” Kieran repeats, shadows covering his eyes.

“Different.” She shakes her head, hands trembling as she wraps the first bandage around his wound. “I’m not afraid of you, Kier. I never - I never could be.”

_Because we’re the same,_ she thinks, as she finishes the last bandage around his upper waist. _And I have been denying that for too long._

The wound isn’t bad as it was before, but Kieran still winces as she hauls him up, slinging an arm over her shoulders. The unspoken question still hovers in the air between them: if a Messenger or guard catches them outside the Foxglove like this, how will they react?

“I have something they’ll like,” she murmurs in his ear. “Don’t worry. We’re going home.”

____

Apostle Seven is, to put it nicely - pissed off.

He’s always been the more active of their twelve overseers, but in his private office, she can tell he is _furious._ Kieran had covered his wound well enough, and so far, he rests outside, because Seven’s too busy yelling at Lauren - a yet-to-be promoted senior member - for accompanying a practiced assassin on a mission where she wasn’t supposed to be. It doesn’t matter if he wanted her there; she could’ve supposedly ruined everything.

She hasn’t even gotten the chance to take out the ledger and show him yet. Good riddance.

“And now the 11th precinct will be breathing down our backs,” he roars, “because the autopsy found _two_ stab wounds instead of one.”

“He had a balisong with him,” she insists. “It isn’t as if our first weapons aren’t our only line of defense.”

“And now the Chantals will be out for your blood,” the Apostle continues. “You do not understand the severity of this situation yet. Forget a promotion, Sinclair. Even Davenport wouldn’t be this risky--”

It’s been a long night, Lauren’s tired, and Belladonna’s the finger on the trigger. It’s why she doesn’t think and sends Katoptris sailing directly at him - pinning his robe’s sleeve to his desk. The shortsword wiggles in the air for a short while.

“Now that I’ve gotten you to be quiet, here.” Lauren unceremoniously dumps the ledger in front of him. “I collected information from his house. Adrian confessed to know multiple hires of multiple upper-class families, including mine.” She spits the last word. “We could easily infiltrate their ranks with this. Schedules, timings, duties. It’s all in here.”

Remarkably, Seven’s mouth snaps shut, his jaw taut.

“The police are still a problem.”

“They aren’t.” She tosses her hood back. Seven says nothing as she opens her coat, revealing red splashed across her torso, her face, in arcs and swaths. “The nearest patrol unit nearly caught us outside the Foxglove. I had Ki - the Purple Hyacinth - take care of the ledger while I took care of them.”

“There,” he says slowly, “were nine of them.”

She smiles, a hard one. “So if you’d please, I would like to _go to bed now.”_

Seven doesn’t say a word for the longest time. And when he does smile, Lauren knows she’s done it. 

Here is her destiny, shrouded in darkness. There will be no survivors.

“I think you’d like to wait around a little longer.” He gestures to her hair. “Radio reports described you - the mysterious accomplice - as someone with _hair like scarlet rivers._ I think I find that quite poetic.” The Apostle cocks his head. “Don’t you, _Scarlet Queen?”_

____

  
  


**_THREE MONTHS LATER_ **

He ducks below the poles attached to the numerous racks above him. With a gun in his hands, the boy aims once, twice, thrice at the targets on the walls. They all fly towards the heart, aiming barely below. In frustration, he runs a hand through his hair, watching it fall in front of his face like cornsilk in the dusky light.

The instructor shakes his head, blowing his whistle. “Cadets! You’re dismissed for the day. Hawkes--” He crooks a finger. “Come here, son.”

_11,_ reads the number on his shirt. He shrugs on his navy sweater as the older man rests a hand on his shoulder, stern face alight with something that could be considered pity.

“Hawkes,” he says, and at the look on the boy’s face, clears his throat. _“Will._ It’s been a hard couple of months, hasn’t it?”

“You can tell,” mutters William Hawkes, barely having crossed seventeen and without any fanfare in that regard. “Listen, I’ll try harder. I just haven’t been hitting my peak in training, and I know my exam scores haven’t been the usual either--”

“I’m aware. Listen, the administration is willing to have you go on leave of absence due to family matters. You’ve hardly said anything about your condition since you got back a few weeks ago, and haven’t consulted the therapist your advisor gave you the card for. Yes, Hawkes,” he says, stern once more. “I can see. I have eyes on the administration as well.”

“I really don’t need leave of absence right now,” he says stubbornly. “If anything, that would make things worse.”

The man sighs. “Look, kid. I get it. You want to run away from your problems. Who doesn’t in times like these? But that won’t help anything.”

“It’s not just that.” He swallows. “I know I can do better. If you just--”

A gunshot ricochets in the air, and Will swivels around at the sound of the noise. The trainees are all gathered around the target range, navy outfits clustered in one large mass, gasping at the sight of something. Ignoring the instructor’s pleas, Will guns for the target range, edging his way through the crowd.

“Sorry - pardon me - _sorry!_ ” 

Another gunshot. Three. Seven.

When Will manages to get to the front of the crowd, his hand accidentally lands on someone’s shoulder.

Almost instantly, he is confronted with a set of arresting hazel eyes and a gun to his head. And at the moment, he should’ve backed away, or levied his own gun, or disarmed his attacker. But he thought none of those things, and did none of those things. Instead, his gaze locked onto _hers -_ sharply cut dark sapphire hair, a beauty mark on her left cheek, a fierce, predatory snarl on her delicate features - and thought only one and one thing alone: _beautiful._

She frowns as she switches the gun to safety. “Oh. I didn’t see you there.”

“Did you think I was your attacker?!” he demands, and she grins.

“Oh.” Recognition fills her features. “Oh. I know _you._ ”

“Hardly anyone here doesn’t not know me, apparently!” he snaps. “What were you doing?”

She twirls the gun in her hands. “Practice.” _Ladell,_ her shirt reads. 

“This isn’t a game,” he retorts. “You could hurt someone like that.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, Hawkes,” she trills, smoothly tucking the gun into her holster belt. “Don’t worry, _William._ You should learn to loosen up. If you want a distraction - target practice’s good as you’re going to get.”

“You were eavesdropping.” The crowd goes silent. She’s done it now.

Ladell shrugs. “I hope she’s doing alright. But for the record - if you want a distraction? Act like it.”

He’s shuddering beside himself with fury, now. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

“Do I?” Her grin grows wider. And then, she whistles, sharply. “Aye, Randall! Toss me the Smith and Wesson model!”

A gun comes flying straight at him, and he catches it. Anger boils up in him to the brim now, the past few days combined with this infuriating girl making him nearly lose his mind. 

He cocks it and holds it to her forehead the same time she does.

_“HAWKES! LADELL!”_ yells the instructor. “Let go of those _now!”_

“Are you gonna hesitate?” she says softly. “Are you?”

_“Kym, drop the gun!”_

_“Will, she’s not worth it, let her go--”_

Without thinking, he fires. The bullet nearly grazes her ear as it thunks into the target. Into the center. He is breathing wildly now, filled with adrenaline as she steps back, holding up her hands and dropping her gun.

“Nice shot, Hawkes,” is all she says.

“Don’t even try me, Ladell,” he hisses, as he walks away for the second time that day, into the heart of a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thought process of Lauren during their dual mission are from William Butler Yeats' 'The Second Coming'.
> 
> That's enough references for today. So...well, well, well. Told ya, didn't I?
> 
> If you would like to sign up for either ADL or EKA, now is the time to do so. Please keep Assassin Duo Lauki and Enemies Kywi Agenda in your head, rent free. Alternatively, you may also donate to Murder Babies, Esquire. But, Murder Babies may soon become non-existent, because...
> 
> ....GUESS WHAT TIME IT IS NOW. DRUMROLL PLEASE. *drumrolls* TIMESKIP TIME! Although this time around I won't tell you how far ahead we're skipping. The next arc is a surprise. And you're all gonna love it, by which I mean I will drag you along with me. The next couple of chapters will have a longer wait time, as this chapter came so soon - can you tell I was excited to write this one? Happy trails, everyone.


	9. horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like clockwork, Lauren collapses into his embrace, wrapping herself tightly around him as he does her, cradling her in his arms. The river rocks the bridge beneath their feet, and she holds her breath as Kieran nudges his forehead against hers. She can’t look away from him, vivid blue eyes boring into her golden ones. It’s getting colder outside, but she doesn’t feel it. Maybe in another life they could be friends meeting on a bridge just for the sake of meeting, not scouting out their target. 
> 
> She tries to focus on anything else. Anything else but the way she wants to bring him closer, closer, wipe out the cold completely from her bones and steal his warmth. But when Lauren tries to imagine daisies in a flower field, or the taste of blueberry scones at dinner time, or the precise shade of Dylan’s gray eyes - she finds she can recall everything but the last one. 

Her espresso is getting cold, and frankly, Lauren can’t care less about what the man in front of her is saying.

Ardhalis’s winter is approaching, but for the relative closeness of a fall soon to end, the outside of the city is warm, painted in shades of orange and gold that fall from the branches of the trees lining the walkways, women and men walking by in lace and petticoats. In front of the Cafe Dahlia, she spots a woman with a parasol perched on her left shoulder, dressed in a matching maroon coat and hat, the light blue ribbon on her hat twisting in the light wind. Her hands tighten around the coffee cup, and she makes to stand in that moment, thinking of some horrible excuse to get out of this encounter she is currently in, except that--

“Lauren? _Are you listening?”_

“Hm?” 

\-- _he_ is keeping her here, and she doesn’t want to make this affair more awkward than it already is.

Awkward. Funny. Considering how the city’s second most-feared assassin ever was currently chatting over coffee with a man who happened to have the personality of the stale end of a baguette, and also happened to take out people on the almost-regular - which would have been not only considered an awkward topic of discussion if said stale man knew - keeping up with Evans’s terribly boring line of conversation should’ve been an easy task for Ardhalis’s Scarlet Queen.

It was, however, not an easy task. “My apologies. I got distracted.” 

Mr. Evans merely lets a small twitch of the mouth express his displeasure, but continues speaking. Lauren exhales in relief, finger tapping an impatient rhythm on the table. 

“Really, I’ve never seen such eyes before. They seem to be rather pensive, don’t they? On the right shade of golden. Gorgeous, in my opinion.”

_You are an awful man and awful at compliments, and if no one were around in this cafe, I would stab you in the back without hesitation._

She smiles tightly. “That’s quite the compliment, sir.”

“I presume your beauty and charm have left behind a trail of heartbroken men,” he says, letting a wink puncture the end of his already-inflated sentence. Lauren was trying her best to continue replying in an even and measured tone, but could not keep her hands from rapping on wood. He was delaying her, and secondly, was practically _begging_ a visit from Katoptris. Oh, how she wished the sword was with her at the moment. It was practically her comfort blanket at this point.

“Really, you flatter me,” she says through gritted teeth, managing a small smile. “But I must’ve been too distracted with my work to even notice.”

“What was it you do again?” He snaps his fingers. “Law enforcement? How brave of a woman like you.”

That was it. If Evans ever found himself on the wrong side of the law, she was definitely paying him a visit. **“I work as a detective in the 7th precinct. The investigative unit.”**

“How interesting.” He folds his hands over each other. “Really, with the recent events in the city, we do need all the courageous people we can get like you. I do feel as if I understand what you go through on the regular, see - my parents own the Evans company, and **I’ve been working rather hard to not disappoint them. We operate in defense, see, trying to help Ardhalis City as best as we can--** ”

_He really is like the stale end of a baguette. Must be hard not being wanted by any woman._

Lauren startles when the woman she’d been watching crosses over to the next street, conversing with a man in a suit. Now or never - otherwise she’s never going to escape this hell.

**“I really had a lovely time,”** Lauren insists, standing, gesturing to Evans, “but I’m afraid there’s some urgent business I have to attend to. I just remembered I **have a consultation with a family in five minutes today to talk over a murder investigation--** ”

“Don’t you dare waste my time!” Evans snaps, suddenly all rage, grabbing hold of Lauren’s arm. She balls her hands into fists, itching for the dagger at her side. But she manages to quell her temper just in time, lifting her arm out of his grasp and twisting his left hand behind his back, earning her a small shout of surprise. Not enough pressure to hurt, but enough to stun.

“I really wouldn’t want to do that,” Lauren says, smirking slightly. “In fact, why don’t you use some of the time you _do_ have left doing something useful, for example? Contributing to society for real this time. Just some suggestions. Like detectives _actually_ do.”

She knows who’s walking towards her before she even looks at him.

“Miss, is this man bothering you?”

“You could say he is,” says Lauren, stepping back with a vengeance. Evans shakes out his arm, looking between her and the man towering over both of them, arms crossed. The white ribbon in his ponytail sticks out neatly in the backdrop of gold.

“It really isn’t nice to harass women. Didn’t your parents tell you otherwise, sir?”

“Keep your nose out of this, _sir,”_ retorts Evans, tugging on his collar violently before stepping out of Cafe Dahlia. The bell tinkles in the wind as the glass door slams shut with a bang. Beside her, Kieran shakes his head, sighing.

“What is it with you and your tendency to pick the worst men to...date?” he asks, smirking as her scowl grows wider.

“They’re easier to get rid of, even though I want to kill them ten minutes into a ‘date.’ Also, I didn’t need your help.”  
  


“Right. Because you were doing _so well._ I could smell your murderous intent all the way from across the cafe. It even crossed through the newspaper I was using as a shield.”

“Do you have any suggestions, then, random man I just met five seconds ago?” Lauren retorts.

“I do.” He leans down. “Random woman I just met five seconds ago: how about you date the random man you just met who isn’t a complete human trash can?”

“You’re as trashy as the wastelands outside Ardhalis.” 

She tosses her hair over her shoulder as Kieran chokes on air, grabbing his hand as she walks outside the cafe, eyes scanning for the woman and the man, who now happen to be three blocks away from them instead of two.

“Judging people based on first impressions is a first for you, _mon bien-aimee,”_ whispers a low voice in her ear, and Lauren fights back the urge to fall back into Kieran’s warmth, his lips leaving an imprint of heat on her skin. He’s right behind her, as always, but their joking mood is dispeled from earlier. Yes, they’re both adults now - he’d turned twenty-one in the winter, she’s currently at nineteen from last October - and yes, their bond cannot stay in the remnant of childhood forever, but something about their relationship simply seems completely different entirely.

Lauren is terrified to put a name to it, and instead clings to his arm, whispering back. “Walk with me. Our target’s on schedule, but she’s farther ahead than I thought.”

“Let’s get moving then.” Kieran places her second hand on his arm, and just like that, they slide into the image of a perfectly regular young couple navigating the fall streets, a slim and dainty figure in skirts on the arm of a gentleman. 

Of course, they’re anything but, but Ardhalis doesn’t have to know about that, ever.

Their target crosses over to the next street, and they pick up their pace, following at a distance of a couple of yards away. She’s alone now, crossing the bridge linking the 11th and 10th districts of Ardhalis, and when she enters a mansion one street down from the river, on aptly named Whiteriver Street, that’s when she pulls Kieran next to her, both of them by the bow of the bridge, overlooking the water, two normal people inspecting the view above and below.

Like clockwork, Lauren collapses into his embrace, wrapping herself tightly around him as he does her, cradling her in his arms. The river rocks the bridge beneath their feet, and she holds her breath as Kieran nudges his forehead against hers. She can’t look away from him, vivid blue eyes boring into her golden ones. It’s getting colder outside, but she doesn’t feel it. Maybe in another life they could be friends meeting on a bridge just for the sake of meeting, not scouting out their target. 

She tries to focus on anything else. Anything else but the way she wants to bring him closer, closer, wipe out the cold completely from her bones and steal his warmth. But when Lauren tries to imagine daisies in a flower field, or the taste of blueberry scones at dinner time, or the precise shade of Dylan’s gray eyes - she finds she can recall everything but the last one. 

“Well?” They share the same breath. Her eyes flit up to the window - the woman is now talking to a noble lady of some sorts, light hair in an updo. “Your move, Detective Sinclair.”

Lauren coughs lightly into her hand, stepping forward. “Three stories, two windows on the upper story. Grayson seems to be picking up something from her maid. A missive from the Randalls. Given who she was talking to earlier, they want to keep their business a secret. But the royal seal is on the communications she was given - they’re not doing a good job like they think they are. Since the city is weakening its defense, the royals are starting to send out their own double agents. She’s about to become one.”

“The evidence?”

“Grayson’s a supporter of increased police force around the royal district, and her husband’s involved in trade. Most likely he’s inconvenienced by Ardhalis’s secret weapons industry the Scythe has been backing for some time.”

“With flying colors,” remarks Kieran, eyeing Rosa Grayson, currently reading the letter in her hands. “It’ll be harder to get in this time, though, given the inside security.”

“We’ll get in,” murmurs Lauren, clutching onto the rail of the bridge. “We always do.”

____

The latter statement proves to be true, but it is certainly not easy. Apparently, the 11th precinct’s new radios get word of the murder of Rosa Grayson before they can slip away into the night, and their patrol unit arrives on the scene and nearly catches both of them before they manage to leave nothing but traces of purple hyacinth petals and scarlet rivers behind.

Allendale’s circular train system services all districts twenty-four hours of the day in addition to overseas destinations, and the trains make the perfect hiding spots at the late hours of the night, when they’re close to being caught. There’s no one in the boxcars when they arrive, slightly damp from washing off their vice, blades shining with slick dew.

“They redesigned the seats,” remarks Lauren, sheathing Katoptris behind her back. “I liked the old cushions better.”

“You haven’t been on a train for seven years.”

“There are firsts for everything,” she remarks, laying her head on his shoulder. The interior of the train is a warm cherry wood, with an olive green ceiling lit up by small chandeliers at odd intervals; cushioned loveseats and chairs with fraying velvet bottoms lining the walkways. Both of them share a cramped loveseat - it’s a habit at this point, no longer uncomfortable. 

Kieran laughs as her head lolls sideways. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me. Tired?”

“Maybe,” she mouths into his clothing, and she feels the shudder of his laughter through her skin. Sometimes it’s easy to forget why they’re here, together, as a tag team. The Purple Hyacinth and the Scarlet Queen make their own kills, yes, but they work best together, and that’s the only reason the Phantom Scythe has let them be - as the most efficient team of assassins this city has ever known. The rules still apply, as always: no attachment, no love, and as long as the Scythe gets a constant fill of corpses, they are allowed to stay together.

Julian is already a poignant reminder of what happens if they break the rules. 

Belladonna had been the one to kill him, after all, after his hesitation two years prior. _She_ hadn’t hesitated in the slightest, and when his burial took place, none of the three remaining assassins had shed a tear. The Black Hawk hadn’t been the kindest to her - but he had not deserved Bella’s blade. 

It doesn’t matter now, anyhow. She’s distant, popping up at the Foxglove every now and then, spending most of her time outside or in her own house, the odd look reserved for Lauren half the time. 

“You didn’t have to be that vicious with Rosa,” says Kieran after a while, making her look up. He isn’t looking at her, rather, out the window. They must be near the 9th. “Psychological manipulation may be your thing, but there was no need to taunt her about her niece.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” she says. “We got the information we needed. Besides, you were the one who nearly cut off her _fingers._ And her _eye.”_

“Forgive my hypocrisy.”

“Forgiven,” she quips, but he still doesn’t look at her.

Sometimes it feels like they’re on two separate islands, drifting apart. She doesn’t know why. “Dunya will be excited to see me,” she remarks. “She just turned twelve not that long ago. Instead of birthday gifts, she wants me to train her in the art of knife throwing.”

Kieran manages a small smile, shrugging. “You are good at that, after all.”

“I’ll show her tomorrow morning,” she says, yawning as she stretches her arms. The sign for the 10th blows right past them, the whistle blowing. 

“Stop’s almost here.”

“I’ll walk you back to the Foxglove.” When she makes to object, he holds up a hand. “No objections. It’s not your fault you can’t have an apartment yet and I do.”

“I can’t ever have one, you mean,” she corrects, as the sign for the 11th district comes to a stop in front of them. “The Chief would notice my civilian reappearance; he’s my uncle after all. But the penthouse isn’t that bad, don’t worry about it.”

He silently nods as she steps out the car first, him only steps behind her. But quicker than lightning, Lauren grabs at his tie, pulling him forward. Kieran manages to catch himself quickly, holding the exterior of the open car doors with both hands. With him still in a variant of his civilian clothing and her wearing his shirt and a black coat, they make for an odd scene. A girl with her partner’s life in her hands, one on the train, the other not.

“Don’t lie to me,” she whispers. Lauren can’t breathe. “Ever.”

“I won’t,” he says, and it’s only then she lets go. 

____

  
  


Detective March only comes out an hour later, and by then, Will’s legs have started to ache.

Lieutenant Gracefell is only able to ask a couple questions before March tips his head and ventures over to the rest of the investigative unit. The whirring red and blue sirens casting lights around the crime scene do no good for his headache, after all, and he and the rest of the patrol unit are left out in the cold night air, waiting for any conclusive evidence that proves who committed the crime.

Although, from what Will has seen - flashes of panicked faces and bags handled with care like they’re holding glass - he’s pretty sure he knows who’s struck again.

The Purple Hyacinth and his lesser-famous accomplice, though not less feared, the Scarlet Queen. The populace dares not call them by their names, however; that is for single strikes and tragedies. When the two of them act together, civilians whisper one name in fear and apprehension, the lingering traces of their anxiety left in the rustling of the trees, curling around lamps, treading above water.

_Lune._

“Officer Hawkes!” someone calls, and he backs off the gate he was leaning on, adjusting his ivory mask. Hermann himself, looking displeased as ever in his late forties, the lines on his face only deepening from his scowl.

“Are we aware who killed Grayson? The witness testimony doesn’t seem to be useful at all.”

“The poor woman was scared out of her wits,” he grumbles, “but I’m sure you can guess who did it.”

“Or rather, _which assassins._ I’m aware,” Will says, sighing. 

“Good work catching wind of them before they were able to leave, though. Now we know we’re looking for a co-ed pair of individuals, rather than two men.” Hermann pats him on the shoulder, still stern as ever, but his scowl lessened. “You might be able to take up Gracefell’s mantle in a year or two after she retires. You’d make a good leader, Hawkes.”

“Thank you, sir,” stammers Will, oddly pleased at his commanding officer’s rare praise. But all thoughts of a promotion leave his mind when another officer leaves the Grayson household, shutting the gates behind her.

Kym Ladell leans against black metal railings, the edge of a sucker pointing out of her mouth like a cigarette. Her coat is slung over her shoulders as a cape, and her dark hair is rustled, windswept, exposing her forehead. The beauty mark under her left eye stands out against the moonlight pouring down upon both of them, a blanket of twilight under a slowly darkening sky.

When she catches him looking at her after Hermann has left, she grins coldly at him.

“Hey, _Williame.”_

“We’re not in the Academy anymore,” he mutters softly. “It’s Will.”

“Thanks for the reminder, buddy. I almost forgot we aren’t trainees anymore.” She stretches, her lithe, curvy body not hidden at all by the thick fabric of her uniform shirt and trousers. “Kinda didn’t see all the blood around here. You know. Anyone could miss that.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Grayson wasn’t the only victim tonight. Robert de la Rocca was murdered as well. Rich merchant. I suspect he visited today along with her maid. Did you get any word from the investigative unit as to why Lune targeted both of them?”

“Shipping market ties. Apparently he got exposed for severing ties with the shipping market and the Scythe, who he was operating for--”

“--as a double agent,” continues Will, sighing. “And so was Grayson, despite having signed with the Scythe only today. They’re cleaning up loose ends before they even have them.”

“Hard to catch something that slips out of your grasp in the first place,” remarks Kym, clenching a fist. “Vermin, I tell you.”

“Thought we’d gotten rid of them for good,” says Will, grateful for the conversation veering to the one thing they agree on. But it doesn’t last, the cold seeping into the space between them as soon as it went. 

“Look,” he says, sighing. “It’s been a long night. Let me walk you home.”

“I manage just fine, honey,” she says, waving a hand. Her smile is all wicked teeth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re afraid for me.”

“No one’s safe around here,” he insists, stepping forward. She leans forward, off the fence and nearly toe-to-toe with him. If Will concentrates, he can smell her faint scent of velvet rose and oud wood. Her boots are stained with dark splotches, more than his are; she must’ve been called back into the crime scene before walking out of the house. 

“You don’t order me around, _Will,”_ she scoffs, grinning as she flicks aside a stray strand of hair out of her hair. “I told you. I can get around fine.”

“Ardhalis being haunted by crime almost every month and week is not _fine,”_ he hisses, and suddenly, he’s grabbing her arm, tugging her close to him. Her mouth is parted in surprise, and under the light of the night sky, they are both shrouded in darkness, every memory of them parted and together flashing through his mind: after the encounter at the gun range, his instant dislike for her growing into a steadier annoyance and hatred, and her humor at those feelings on her part, the two of them constantly at each other’s throats at examination times, patrol exercises, in the training room, _you despise me, don’t you? I know you do. At least you don’t look half-dead like you did before._

_You noticed me,_ William Hawkes said three years ago, slamming a book shut in the library. Amber eyes peering over a bookshelf, staring him down, despite being shorter than him, much shorter. _Why did you notice me?_

_It’s not like you were hard not to notice,_ Kym Ladell at fifteen had said, quirking her eyebrows up. _You were the Academy’s resident ghost._

_And now?_

_Now,_ she’d said, flipping open a copy of the very book he’d been looking at, _you’re different._

“If I go with you, will you shut up about my safety?” she says quietly, voice suddenly grown cold. He can only guess what’s running through her mind; part of it must be about how she hates how he acts like he can handle everyone. Handle everything.

“Maybe.”

“Good enough.” She yanks her arm out of his grasp. “Let’s go.” 

And then stops mid-turn, as if she’s seen something terrible flash in front of her eyes.

“Kym?” Her name is a soft, one-syllable thing on his tongue. He shouldn’t call her name like that, he knows, but it’s been a long day, and the dislike doesn’t come as usual.

“Just thought I saw--” She shakes her head. “On that roof. But it was a bird.” Her shields go up as they begin walking down Whiteriver, footsteps in harmony with each other. “Let’s just go.”

____

Kieran watches the two officers split from the patrol unit, the cars outside Grayson’s house slowly dispersing. He and Lauren’s kills tonight were not part of the usual modus operandi, and partially it was ordained by the Scythe to make sure the police were on their toes - different pattern, same crime - but also to keep their blades sharp.

It should not disgust them the way it does now. He knows it doesn’t do the same things to Lauren when he watches her interrogate, when he watches her move Katoptris like an extension of her arm. And he doesn’t give away any weakness in the heat of battle either, but when alone, only the sag of his shoulders exposes the burdens of seven years and more of his wrongdoing. A crow flies into the air as he sneaks into the shadows of a chimney, exhaling.

Purple hyacinths, to represent the crest of the royal family.

Purple hyacinths, to represent the turmoil of his heart.

_Please forgive me, I am sorry--_

_I don’t hesitate,_ Lauren had said once, with daisies in her hair. _And I will never regret._

He balls his hands into fists. No, that is not the day he is looking for. Kieran rifles through his memories until he slides down the brick wall of the chimney, hand to his forehead, finding the one picture of a sunny day only a year prior.

_He shouldn’t have seen what he saw._

_But he did anyway: when Kieran stumbled into the training room, intent on practicing with his katana, he found Lauren at the boxing range, showing a smaller, darker-skinned child with her hair in a bun how to punch._

_“Uppercut,” she said, smiling down at Dunya. “Like that. And aim for their weak spots - the jaw, and the cheek,” she said, laughing as the girl giggled up at her._

_Slowly, he began to creep forward, smirking as he set the sword down, hands behind his back._

_“Crescent kick - and twist!” she exclaimed, sending the bag flying back. Dunya gaped in amazement, clapping her own gloved hands with excitement. He was almost there, close behind, and so far, neither girl had noticed him._

_“You’re really good, Lauren.”_

_“Well, I’ve practiced for years,” she said, raking her auburn hair back into a ponytail. Her pale skin shimmered with sweat, the toned flats of her stomach exposed by a pair of loose black pants and a set of wrappings around her chest, the same wrappings around a set of gloves on her hands. “You’ll do just as good one day. Faster, stronger than I ever was. Sneakier, too.”_

_“Like he is?” Dunya said, pointing to Kieran, who was now directly behind Lauren._

_In a flash, he remembered the short sensation of colliding with the ground at his back, her on top of him, grinning as she held a blade to his throat. The air had gone up ten degrees as Dunya whooped with glee, as he blinked up in shock. Lauren was on top of him, holding one arm down, straddling his hips._

_She’d shot up the moment they looked at each other too long, refusing to make eye contact until she’d come out of the changing room, freshly washed. It had been her who threw the towel at him first, breaking the awkwardness._

_“Looks like you’re not as sneaky as you thought you were.”_

_“Your protegee scared me,” Kieran had grumbled, crossing his arms as she laughed. And he watched, when he shouldn’t have. Watched as the sun illuminated her in flecks of gold and amber, turning her into a goddess of vengeance._

Kieran sighs into his hands.

He doesn’t want to walk the path opposite hers. Not yet.

“Where did I go wrong?” he whispers into his skin, no answer to be found in the moon above, nor the night below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*
> 
> Welcome to canon territory, everyone. As you may have guessed by now, the events of S1 will be meshed with the current timeline, which is 3 years behind the canon. I did this partially because a) it's more interesting to explore given the switched dynamics and I didn't want to copy-paste the canon, b) more angst. YOU WILL SEE, MWAHAHAHAHA.
> 
> Murder Babies are no longer babies, F in the chat. But they'll always be babies in my heart. Why do I feel like crying? Is this what it's like having children? Now they're just adult idiots. But writing older Lauren and Kieran is turning out to be a fascinating process for me; their dynamic has started to get way more intense - as you can tell :) And of course, Enemies! Kywi is having the time of their lives. I do love me some Angry Kywi.
> 
> And, last but not least...sigh. A chapter count increase, yet again. Not thirty, not thirty-five, but thirty-seven chapters of this AU. You know what to do to motivate me - comments and kudos are my flowers, dearest ones ;)


	10. bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So it begins,” he murmurs.
> 
> “So it begins,” she repeats, and knows intimately, down to her bones, that whatever follows this pact will change the course of their fate forever.

They look at her in fear. Kym supposes this is a good thing - the poor sods need a bit of adrenaline pumping in their veins before they enter the shooting range, much less the real world.

She tips the cap on her head, coat swinging behind her in the wind as she cocks the safety back on the gun, sunglasses blocking the glare of the sun above. In a flash, three bullets snap into the head, center, and bottom of the target, in perfect order. 

Behind her, someone whimpers.

_“Good morning, fresh meat!”_ she hollers, and they all tremble in unison, like a crowd of cowardly, cowardly leaves. “If you don’t match this marksmanship - _I’m gonna fail you so hard you wish you were dead!”_

“I made a mistake,” one girl whimpers, the pistol tight in her hands as Kym nearly zips over to the sound of the noise, tipping her glasses down.

_“Having second thoughts, cadet?!”_

“No, m-ma’am!” she stutters, saluting. Kym rolls her eyes.

“You. _Up now.”_

She ventures up faster than lightning. When the first bullet strikes near the center of the head, Kym’s sigh is cut off by the disapproving _tsk_ of someone behind her. Her mouth is parted halfway through a yell when she realizes all the cadets have gone silent, parted in a beeline for a certain officer making his way through the crowd.

“I thought Sergeant Adler was supposed to supervise?” 

“He called in sick,” says Kym, twirling the gun in her hands as she faces Will head-on. That’s the one thing she dislikes about him the most. Always butting into everyone’s business. Always butting into hers, after she’d encountered him in a gun range not unlike this one three years prior. “They asked me to supervise. I was quite the prodigy back then.”

“Oh, I remember,” Will mutters, sweeping back his hair.

She swallows, hard. 

All she had wanted was to get that ghostly look out of his eyes. And, to her merit, it had succeeded. And then he had started hating her, and that was when everything changed. He hadn’t even bothered - hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge they were the _same--_

It doesn’t matter now. They’re where they are, for better or for worse. 

“They look like they want to die,” he remarks, as the second cadet steps up to the range, shooting. Kym is currently clutching a clipboard, furiously writing down notes to avoid any more eye contact with him. “When Adler said supervise, I don’t think he meant _make them wish they were already dead.”_

“They’ll get used to it,” she says, plastering a grin on her face. “Eventually. _What’s with that form, cadet?!”_

“Sorry, Officer Ladell!”

“Disappointing,” she remarks, crossing out a name on her clipboard. Someone calls both their names, and they look up in unison. It’s one of the officers, waving her hand at them. 

“Hermann’s called a meeting!” she yells. “You’re both expected to be there after the exam is over. _Both of you,”_ she adds, nervously glancing between both of them.

____

The first snow comes early, and Kieran has the recent storm of fresh powder to descend upon the city to thank for coverage. White nothingness blots out all noise, even the scuttling of rats in the alleyways, and shields his footsteps as he makes his way across a mansion rooftop. With one sure-footed leap, he swings silently into a windowed balcony, picking the glass doors open with the clip in his gloved hands. They swing open, and he treads down into a living room into a hallway free of anyone there. 

Of course, it isn’t silent for long: his target’s voice makes its way across the floorboards. His shadow grows darker as he creeps forward, with a lethal panther’s grace, sword hilt in one hand, the other steadied against eggshell white wallpaper.

_“I’ll call you later, Anslow,”_ he insists, hanging up the phone. McTrevor sighs, head in his hands as he says into his chair, documents rustling on the desk freely. Kieran cocks an eyebrow up as he closes the office door behind him, locking it.

“Hello, McTrevor.” The two words come out raspy, dark. 

The older man nearly jumps in his seat. “Ah. White. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Here to check up on the transports?”

“Not quite.” His finger slides down the peek of silver exposed between the sheath and the sword hilt. “The Leader has become displeased with several of his associates. I’m going to make this quick, really. Why have several of our weapons stocks gone missing overseas?”

McTrevor’s face begins to slowly match the pallor of the snowfall outside. And this is when Kieran lets his worse side show: the mask sliding on easy as ever. 

“I wasn’t aware that—”

“Tsk, tsk. No one likes a terrible liar.” Kieran unsheathes his blade. “Either you’re going to go on and tell me that the weapons imports were seized by Beaubonnean officials, which is the better of two lies, or the second, which is that the ship was lost at sea.”

McTrevor’s jaw tenses. “I had them shipped to my own vaults. For storage purposes.”

“Better.” Kieran sighs. “But not quite.” 

His eyes dart to the photo on the desk - a photograph of a child. 

“You like your children, don’t you, McTrevor?”

“What are you actually here for?!” he demands, standing up from his chair, the wood scraping against carpet. There will be no easy answers today. Kieran’s mind flashes to the dark corners of cathedrals and hyacinth petals. Another delivery today, he supposes.

“Sorry to disappoint you in regards to answers,” he says, and lets his sword do the rest of the talking. 

____

The Grim Goblin is particularly raucous today. 

The men in the corner are particularly ticking her off, however. They slam their cards down with all the force in the world as brute men with no regards for decency always do, and the scent of cigarette smoke fills her lungs with a bitter venom. A venom that tests her patience as she raps her fingernails against the glass she nurses, mask rugged down to her neck. The strings on Kieran’s shirt - her shirt now, she supposes - have fumbled loose a bit, the blouse tight on her body, the long black coat she often wears on missions rolled up to her elbows. She’d taken the shirt one day out of haphazard carelessness, to wear on an assignment. And when she had returned, he had insisted on her keeping it, despite the fact that it was nearly two times her size, never making eye contact with her all the way. 

One man slams down a three of hearts. She eyes the blackjack game with a detached eye, willing her irritation down. Two minutes. Just two more minutes.

“I know!” erupts a man, the two others laughing loudly in harmony. “My guys robbed some idiot nobles yesterday - like stealing from infants! Cry as much, too!”

Another round of laughter. 

“Would you like anything else, Miss?”

“Earplugs, maybe,” she grits through her teeth. The bartender blinks, once, twice, then sets off for the storage room. 

“Squealing like pigs, I tell ya,” rambles the man with the fur coat, smoke pooling from the burnt end of his cigar. “And then they go cry to the cops, like the _cops_ can do anything. Just another pen of squealing pigs!”

_Three, two, one—_

The laughter does not cease.

And then the door swings open, and Lauren holds herself back from killing Kieran White or crushing him to death with an embrace. His dark coat trails the floor, white mask gone. The katana he uses so often is attached to his hip, and only a tiny bit of crimson can be spotted on the hilt. His raven bun has been tousled, strands hanging over his face. 

“Well if it isn’t the Leader’s favorite pet,” sneers another man at the table, brown hair in a ponytail. “All bark and no bite. Come to report another kill, _devil hound? Like the attack dog you are?”_

Lauren nearly cracks the glass in her fingers. Kieran does nothing but stand next to her silently, eyes meeting hers for a second. Her back is still to him, but she slowly moves a hand behind her back, exposing her palm. 

She feels the pressure of his fingers on her skin only seconds later, shivering.

_It’s done. McTrevor was stealing from the Phantom Scythe. Another traitor, like we guessed._

Lauren turns over his hand and begins tapping. _Good grief. Glad to have you back._

She’s about to continue when the man speaking raises his voice, handling a throwing knife in his hands. 

“Think you’re above us common guttersnipes, don’t you? Isn’t the whole point of this to be beyond that? _Why don’t you come say hello to your fellow comrades?”_

And just like that, the dagger comes flying at Kieran’s face. He catches it smoothly, of course, twirling it in his fingers. Lauren makes no move towards him - here, in public, the rules still apply. And he is more than capable of handling a drunk attack. But it doesn’t make the urge to leap off her chair and start verbally tearing these men to shreds any less. 

“Oh?” His voice comes out as a dark purr, and she shivers, down to her core. Quick as a flash, the dagger sails into the heart of the card table.

“Forgive this man, sir!” erupts the second man, stuffing his fellow companions’s head into the table. “He was drunk, he didn’t know what he was saying!”

Kieran only chuckles in response. “Maybe I’ll check in next time to report _your_ deaths, _comrades.”_

Tap. Tap. Tap.

_Outside in five minutes. Telephone booth._

And just like that, he’s gone in a flash. 

The bartender hands her a set of makeshift earplugs. “Will these do?”

“Whatever works,” Lauren drones, stuffing them in her ears.

____

  
  


The booth is a block away from the tavern, clad in what was probably a candy-apple red at one point in time. Lauren’s patience is close to bursting at this point, and when a dark-haired certain someone finally, _finally_ strides out of the tavern and down the street, she knows what any passerby sees - a random hand coming to yank an innocent man into a telephone booth by the collar. 

But no one pays any heed to it.

Inside though, Kieran’s forehead bumps into hers uncomfortably as they squish together inside the cramped space, her hands against his almost half-bare chest - _he still will not button up -_ and his hands pressing her against the frosted glass walls. Lauren clenches her teeth together as one hand accidentally grazes the side of her thigh.

_Stop freaking out,_ her mind nearly shrieks at her. She ducks her head. _Are you stupid?! You’re acting like you haven’t seen him in months!_

“Lauren,” Kieran says, grinning slightly, one arm against the wall, above her head. “Am I crushing you to death?”

“This is fine,” she grumbles, crossing her arms. She sighs, rubbing at her temples. “We won’t be spotted, anyhow.”

“My, my. Aren’t you scandalous today?”

“Aren’t you particularly daring,” she shoots back, out of a wealth of pent-up annoyance. “Really, throwing knives at people?”

“What were they going to do?” he asks, snorting. “They’re _actually_ guttersnipes, darling. A little show doesn’t hurt.”

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes, trying to concentrate on anything but how close he is. “So, our theory was all but right.”

“Practically.” Kieran looks down at her. “I reported to Messenger IV what I told you, essentially. There have been more and more reports of rebellions popping up in the Scythe ranks. If this goes on, one could slip through our fingers. Side with the monarchy, aid them.”

The unspoken _and destroy everything we’ve ever worked for_ floats in the wind like a bell chime. “Traitors. We still don’t know what’s motivating a switch.”

“Admittedly, at first, I thought it was a fluke. The new Leader’s rule being too harsh, resulting in defectors. But this is a recurring pattern. There has to be some motivation.”

“It could come from the royals themselves,” Lauren warns. Her hands clench around the bars of the glass as her mind shoots in a million directions: half of which end at the certain tip of a budding flower, petals curved pink and white dragons in flight. “Bribery. They’ve increased your bounty thricefold in recent years. And the Chief has it out for all our heads.”

Kieran frowns, catching onto her train of thought instantly. “If it were _them,_ we’d know. There are already sleeper agents in our ranks.”

She looks skyward, an idea slowly coming to fruition. “Don’t we have doubles in the 11th precinct?”

“We do.” Kieran frowns. “I highly doubt the one we have in there will cause any problems, however. He’s a little meek around the edges, personally motivated. Hasn’t showed any signs of defecting. Or staying. It could be worse.”

Lauren files this information in her head for later. “It could be,” she admits.

“He loves his family,” her partner recalls. “With motivation like that - I highly doubt he’ll bolt for the exit.”

“You never know.” She hooks her thumbs in the loops of her belt, meeting his own gaze evenly. This time, she teaches herself how to breathe evenly, dispel the tension between them, thick as ice: in, out. Until there is nothing but smoke lapping at the edges, and it is easy again. “Love is a crude weakness. Makes people like him careless. Makes _people_ weak, period.”

Kieran barks out a harsh laugh, low in her ear. “What a terrible thing to feel.”

Her lips curl upward. “Indeed.”

“Given the recent turn of events,” he says, looking sideways as he stands straighter a bit, “we really should set up a solid base of operations. **I forgot to tell you** \- Messenger IV has another assignment for us both.”

“I’m not moving in with you,” she blusters, tripping over her words as he swings open the booth door.

“You won’t even reconsider? How you wound me.” He holds a hand over his heart. “Walk with me,” Kieran explains, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Some part of her knows it’s a ploy to keep her with him longer, but she follows him down the street anyhow.

____

The darker shades of night are surrounding the area over the water, and the streetlights barely manage to switch on in time to illuminate two figures wandering the snow-covered tracks of the bridge. When Kieran leaps onto the railing, swinging around a pole like a ballerino, Lauren watches him silently as she rests her forearms on said railing, breath misting slightly in the cold air.

“Sometimes,” she wonders aloud, “I do wonder how people don’t go screaming at the sight of your face alone.”

“What makes you ponder that?” he asks, crossing his arms, leaning against the lamp post. “You truly are brutal, Lauren. I don’t exactly have the visage of a trash can.”

There goes their joke again. “But you’ve got an ego larger than the sea.”

“A handsome paradox, am I not?” he says, waving a hand. She rolls her eyes in exasperation, back to the river below. 

“You said we had an assignment?” 

At that, Kieran leaps down, more serious at the mention of his - _their_ \- soon-to-be-revealed assignment. “It’s quite the lengthy one. Simple as they go, which is really why you shouldn’t be so quick to refuse my proposals, really--”

“I’m not--” She pinches the bridge of her nose before she can blurt out something stupid. “Just tell me what it is.”

He looks up. “The Leader wants us, personally, to exterminate the traitors within our ranks. As Lune _officially_ this time.”

Alright, so maybe she has been foolish all along to refuse his proposals, because the assignment in and out of itself sends her into shock. And it shouldn’t, because she’d been expecting something like this for a while, but the simple fact of having them work together for an unspecified amount of time rather than a documented amount makes things uncomfortable for some reason she can’t quite place.

“I have conditions,” she says slowly, steeling her face into something unreadable. 

Kieran only raises an eyebrow in response. “Go on.”

“We continue investigating the Snapdragon alongside this mission,” she states, walking closer to him, “because I’m pretty sure the two are connected either way. Our base of operations will be closer to the Foxglove, as well.”

“Oh, so I’m the one coming closer to you, I see.” She has half a mind to playfully smack his arm as he snickers like when they were kids, but instead settles for scoffing.

“Call it what you want,” she says. “Anyhow, we need to keep this secretive. There’s no way we can be assured other associates won’t snitch us out.”

“I’ve already worked that out,” reassures Kieran. “I have my own condition as well.”

“Spill.”

“Trust,” is all he says, and she blinks in surprise. But he looks somber as he says it. “If any of us need to detract at one point, or go after a particular goal...whether or not it needs explanation is up to us and us alone.”

“I thought we already had trust?” she asks, cocking her head as he holds his hand out.

“Just voicing what was already there,” he rectifies. He’s waiting, still, and without hesitation, she puts her hand in his. As always, they fit, calluses over calluses, fingers in between each other’s spaces. The scent of sandalwood and something darker grows potent as he pulls her forward, their grins equally matched.

“So it begins,” he murmurs.

“So it begins,” she repeats, and knows intimately, down to her bones, that whatever follows this pact will change the course of their fate forever.

____

  
  


“Chief of Police speaking.”

“It’s just me, Tristan,” says Dakan Rhysmel over the phone. “You’re still up at this hour?”

“A man has his duty,” Tristan says, chuckling slightly, adjusting his bifocals. He looks out the window, the moon silently washing the city in light. “Although I am curious as to why you’re calling at such an hour. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” he says, reassuringly. “I just found something out, however, that might pique your interest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelings for a certain dark-haired someone: hi!  
> Lauren: **remy_from_ratatouille_gagging.dotgif**
> 
> (Additionally, I've been thinking of a codename for this fic for fans to use in discussions, since the title itself is LONG, and I suppose...sigh, Murder Babies will have to substitute for now.)


	11. flicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aren’t we wasting time?” She raps his tophat with her knuckles. “Let’s get going, _sir_.”
> 
> “Very well,” he says, holding out his arm. She takes it, smoothly hooking her own arm around his, fingers creasing the dark fabric of his suit. “For the record, by the way,” Kieran whispers, “I do hope that dress lets you dance.”
> 
> “Oh, don’t you worry about your partner-in-crime, now,” she quips, and the moonlight shrouds both of them as they step into the Golden Clover. “She is a finer dancer than you ever imagined.”

“And  _ then,”  _ grumbles Dunya as she curves the throwing knife in a neat arc, catching the circular handle, “Three wouldn’t even let me rejoin the others in the weapons room!”

“She’s always been the stricter one,” says Lauren in a soothing voice, reaching behind her. The girl now reaches Lauren’s shoulders, just barely, at five feet. Her fingers close over Dunya’s as she adjusts her grip. “And you’re going to veer the knife off course if you throw it like that.”

“How long have you been practicing this?” She adjusts her bun as Lauren stands in front of the targets, seemingly conjuring three knives in each hand from out of nowhere. 

“Long enough to not cut myself.” In two swift motions, the knives sail into the heart of the target, landing within centimeters of each other. 

It’s clear how anxious the younger girl is when Lauren encourages her to go up to the target, plucking the knives out. “Go on. Try to focus above the target, otherwise you’ll end up aiming for somewhere other than the center.”

Dunya’s mouth tightens in concentration as she swings her arm back, and the knife circles through the air, landing just above the center, in the second ring of the target. Just as she’s about to sag with relief, a voice that isn’t Lauren’s reverberates throughout the private training quarters.

“Nicely done, Almari!” chuckles Kieran, who Lauren knows probably crept in mere minutes ago, and will now proceed to act like he’s been here the entire damn time. She raises a brow at him, and he holds up his hands, but nothing about his appearance suggests he’s sorry in the slightest. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting bonding time?”

“Not in the slightest,” squeaks Dunya, cheeks coloring, and Lauren smirks under her breath. It’s no secret she and half of the younger trainees have crushes on the formidable assassin himself. 

“Yes, you were,” Lauren says, emphasis punctuated with every knife she collects out of the target. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting up the cave?”

“Everything’s already set up, show-off,” he says, wrinkling his brow in confusion as she points a knife at him. “What, did you want me to spray perfume on the walls?”

“Maybe, because it’s cold and damp and  _ stinks.” _

“I spent an hour in there while you were in here throwing dangerous objects with a  _ child!”  _ he splutters, while she and Dunya share matching smirks. 

“So it’s true then?” Dunya asks, walking over to Kieran, frantically trying to keep her hands by her sides. Neither of them pay any heed to Lauren starting to climb the wooden rafters of the space, hauling herself onto the first beam below the ceiling, Katoptris now strapped to her back. “You’re really going to move back here to find the traitors with her?”

“More or less,” he says, shrugging. “The cave will be our base, but we’ll both stay at the Foxglove. You’ll get to see more of me. Excited?” he teases, as Dunya’s blush flares into full force again. 

“Stop stealing my protegee from me,” drones Lauren, the clang of metal audible as she draws the shortsword out, crouching.

_ “Our  _ protegee,” he corrects. “I’m frankly certain dearest Dunya won’t mind joint custody -  _ what are you doing?!” _

“Being a show-off,” she retorts, and in one swift motion, flips backwards off the rafter, pulling her knees towards her chest. She lands on the wooden floors soundlessly, Katoptris’s blade parallel with her back, the sword tip just above her head. Lauren turns her head to the left, gesturing to Dunya, blowing a strand of auburn out of her face. “I can teach you this if you want.”

“How many years did that take?” she asks reluctantly, clamping her jaw shut.

“One and a half without injuring myself.”

“I can do better,” challenges Dunya, laughing a bit as Kieran nudges her side before walking up to Lauren, offering a hand out. She takes it, the three of them side by side.

“There we go. Already the best assassin of the next generation,” he says, the girl’s expression quickly shifting into one of sheepishness as Lauren nods along with his praise. 

“The two of you are just exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating? Me? Lauren, do I exaggerate?”

“Every second of every day,” she quips, and laughs when his grin fades in a matter of seconds, the three of them shrouded in gold from the soft light breaking through the window from the east - this time, not catching when he stares at her a second too long again, reminiscent of a time alike and yet not alike, or when he quickly looks away to avoid being caught. 

____

“Greetings, Captain Hermann!” the officers chorus as the familiar figure of a man with graying hair approaches the podium within the meeting room, ruffles placed neatly over his ascot and blue coat. 

“Morning to all,” he says brusquely, giving the cue for all of them to sit down. Kym perches herself on the edge of her seat, sneaking a glance at Will. He seems testy for reasons she doesn’t want to discover - or perhaps he’s still shaken from their encounter at the gun range. Maybe it reminds them of their former competitiveness. 

She’s never been able to read him all that easily. When he senses her looking at him, she quickly looks away, turning her attention to Hermann’s announcements.

“As you know, two high priority citizens were murdered last night, in the 11th precinct. We are dealing with the Purple Hyacinth again,” he emphasizes, shuffling papers. “Thanks to Officer Hawkes, we’re aware the Hyacinth is approximately 20 to 30 years of age, and around 5’9 or so.”

This time, Kym doesn’t bother concealing her sideways glance from Will. He doesn’t notice - his attention is diverted forward, away from hers.

“It’s most likely he has gone back into hiding. However, it is likely that his accomplice the Scarlet Queen will be behind him. Unfortunately, we have no information on her besides the fact that she seems to be of average height - and close in contact to the Purple Hyacinth.”

They both freeze up at his next words.

“We are getting closer to discovering Lune’s true identity by the day. If any murders happen within the next month or so that seem to follow their patterns, please report it as soon as possible. We cannot afford to lose any more information at their behest.”

Kym removes her thumb from the pinch of her teeth. She really should stop picking at her nails - it’s a nervous habit of hers.

_ “Yes, sir!” _

“Additionally, I want volunteers to work security during Viscount Redcliff’s annual ball on February 17th. His Majesty’s right hand, Lord Rhysmel, has personally requested our presence during this event. Many high profile members of the nobility are expected to attend. And if you do decide to attend -  _ your performance must be impeccable.  _ That is all.”

Kym’s voice choruses automatically in a sea of officer’s voices, alongside Will’s. But her eyes keep darting to his, and, remarkably, he catches her own gaze, ocean song just as erratic as her own. Silently, she motions behind her back to follow, and he doesn’t groan or make a noise under his breath as he trails her outside the back door, the sun shining on both of them. When it shuts behind them, he rounds on her. And she’d be lying if she wasn’t scared by it, admittedly - he nearly backs her up against the wall, but she passes it off as laziness by sliding against the woodwork just so, crossing her arms as he speaks.

“What kind of game are you playing, Kym?!” he hisses, brows furrowed. “You kept looking at me in there. What is it?”

“Maybe I was staring at the mole that decided to pop up on your right cheek and spread like a fungus,” she retorts. A vein pops up in Will’s forehead. The light behind him is nearly blinding, casting a halo over him.

_ “Kym.” _

“Believe me, I don’t want to be here either,” she bites out. “But you know more. I know you do. From the way you were talking about the incident that night. And you were attentive. I know you’re never attentive during meetings, despite your perfect performance as an officer. Too many nervous ticks.”

“You’ve been watching me?” Will says incredulously. “Funny. Seems like you’ve been watching me for a while now, haven’t you?”

“You’re not exactly invisible. And you’re avoiding my question, Will. Spit it out. Whatever it is you know about Lune, I want to know too.”

He recoils. “What makes you think I know anything about both of them?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Do you even see how you’re acting right now?”

“I--”

“You’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen,” she says, hands on her hips as she sticks out her tongue at him. “Really. If they hired you as a dead body double for a film, you’d fail at being dead. And that’s impressive, yeah?”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

“You couldn’t kill me,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “I am inevitable. Indestructible. In--”

“Fine, fine, just shut up!” he says, forcing her arms down. “Fine, I--” He breaks off, then speaks again. Will looks uncharacteristically somber. “I don’t know any new information on Lune. But something seems  _ off.  _ Their recent kills have seemed...coordinated to target Scythe traitors, rather than monarchy sympathizers. There might be a weakness in the Phantom Scythe.”

“Interesting theory,” she says genuinely. “But there’s only one problem with that hypothesis. You don’t have any evidence.”

“I know that,” Will says, sighing. “Which is why - I don’t know, was thinking of asking the investigation unit if they could--”

“You sound like a detective,” Kym says quietly. “And I see another problem in your actions.”

“What.”

“You’d need a second pair of hands to gather information without being caught by our superiors,” she says, gesturing to herself.

He suddenly looks affronted, as if she’s suggested that he go jump off a cliff into the sea. “I already know that. And I don’t know if I was actually going to investigate them from afar.”

“Right.” She stiffens. “Your coveted lieutenant position. The golden boy must have golden behavior.”

“Kym--”

“Forget I even said anything,” she says, walking out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

____

  
  


“Well, we’ve struck gold,” Kieran says, stepping back from the two boards they’ve set up in the cave. Lauren walks up to him, looking at the copious amount of red string they’ve attached in divots and patterns around various images and files. A spiderweb of string extends around transaction files they found from McTrevor, the files they’d collected for his shell company - in reality, a sideshore operations front for weapons distribution, with the names of Anslow and Flemmings within it. 

She has a brief flash of memory: the latter man seven years younger, smirking as she’d tried to escape the doctor’s office. She’d be lying to herself if she doesn’t feel a sting of cold satisfaction at a miniature taste of revenge.

“Anslow’s decided to poke out his head for a while. I’ve been following him around for a couple of days, and he’ll be at the Golden Clover tonight at 10, per his routine. I’ll search his house before we both arrive there.”

“Perfect,” Lauren says, running a hand over the wax seals on the documents, feeling the red material under her bare thumb. Kieran’s opted for a flowy navy shirt, despite the cold of the cave, black gloves on his figure, messy bun intact. She still doesn’t get how she constantly has to pile on ivory sweaters and thick pants to keep away the chill. “I’ll stake out the back. Most likely they have a storage closet we can interrogate him in.”

“Hmm, but would you rather have me or you lure him in?”

“I’ll bait him,” she says, shuddering a bit as she shuffles over to type the last of her warning letter to future traitors. “Leave it to me. You wanna take a look at this?”

“Luring him in and then using your psychic powers to scare the devil out of him. You heartbreaker,” he drawls, leaning over her as she inspects her handiwork. “Or am I wrong?”

Lauren shrugs. “Men like him are fickle.”

_ “To our fellows of the Phantom Scythe: if you have taken future interest or current in other propositions, as I highly doubt nobility and chivalry in regards to justice aid you in your quest within our ranks -  _ ouch,” Kieran says sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. “We should leave different calling cards for each case. Arrogance will be on our side. I’ll type up the next letter. We’ll switch linguistic styles in the police’s eyes, and it’ll be harder to distinguish.”

“Keep reading,” she says. “Trust me.”

_ “...and should any of you depart and report our presence to the police, I highly doubt that would be the best case of action, as they have already caught onto your tail,”  _ he says, finishing off the last of the letter.  _ “This letter is stained with datura flower serum, which is flammable. The right amount of heat will self-destruct it within a matter of seconds. Our dearest regards - signing off - Lune.” _

Silence echoes in the cave.

“I’m going to bring lighter fluid,” she says after a while. “You - uh, gave me the idea for flower substances--”

“Brilliant,” he says, pride in every inch of his smile.  _ “Brilliant.  _ Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a new nickname?”

“‘Scarlet Queen’ suits me fine.” She stares him down. “You gave me the name, really, in a way. I’m not trading it for anything else.” Lauren gets up from the makeshift desk, tugging at her ruffles.

“I’ll get ready, then,” she says, brushing off her pants. “And I know our meeting spot.”

“You do,” he says, nodding. “Before I forget, darling - choose something that’s  _ easy _ to dance in.”

____

The coat she wears is more like a cloak, but it functions well to keep away the cold. The Golden Clover is, as per its name,  _ golden  _ everywhere, decorated by an ornate set of doors with butlers at each end, metallic leaves in shades of amber and tawny yellow decorating the uppermost corners. The cold dew on the cobblestones of the darkened night-tainted streets lends a mystic air to the scene. Faint jazz music can be heard pouring from the inside of the bar, and she only has to wait a tiny amount of time before a cutting figure makes its way through the crowd. Lauren has to suck in a breath before her teeth, shivering from anything  _ but _ the cold as she walks towards him. 

He’s chosen formal wear, as she has. Kieran’s normally artfully messy hair has been pulled back into a neat ponytail laced with a white ribbon tying it together, a tophat raised slightly with a cane he holds in his hands. The entire suit is black, the only signs of color to be found in his white shirt peeking out from behind the blazer, and the red wine-colored tie and interior of his tuxedo coat. 

“Well?” He winks at her. “Ready for our date?”

“Did you find anything at Anslow’s?” she asks first, tightening the coat around her body. 

“Nothing, unfortunately,” he says, clearly annoyed and disappointed both. “He’s not as stupid as McTrevor. He knows better than to leave traces of his operation in his office.”

“Let’s hurry, then. We won’t have a lot of time before the staff alert the police of Anslow’s disappearance.”

“Oh, why the rush?” he says, catching her arm. Her hood shifts down her head slightly. “I don’t want them to see a gentleman escorting a mysterious figure in black that may or may not scare away the customers, you know.”

“Sorry we can’t all be devilishly handsome,” she says, rolling her eyes as she tosses back her hood, undoing the buttons on her coat. “I just forgot -  _ there.” _

The reason she hid for him for so long wasn’t because of her appearance. 

It was because of the stupid dress - the stupid dress she’d chosen on a whim that just so happened to  _ coordinate  _ with his suit.

Her hair, which normally flows down her back or in an updo, is now in Liberty curls, framing her face, barely reaching her shoulders, dotted everywhere with miniature diamonds. Large pearl earrings and a matching necklace weigh on her pale skin, which has been decorated with just a hint of makeup - shimmering eyeliner, dark lipstick - all to compliment a gown of an off-red wine color, bordering on magenta, sleeveless and with a V-neckline, the back low-cut with swaths of fabric hanging from it. A line of rhinestone diamonds skids down the side of the skirt, which curves around her hips, but with enough room for her to twirl - or kick.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he asks, smirking as she scowls. “Don’t we make quite the pair.” Perhaps it’s just her imagination, but his eyes have darkened. 

“Aren’t we wasting time?” She raps his tophat with her knuckles. “Let’s get going,  _ sir.” _

“Very well,” he says, holding out his arm. She takes it, smoothly hooking her own arm around his, fingers creasing the dark fabric of his suit. “For the record, by the way,” Kieran whispers, “I do hope that dress lets you dance.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about your partner-in-crime, now,” she quips, and the moonlight shrouds both of them as they step into the Golden Clover. “She is a finer dancer than you ever imagined.”

____

Thank the heavens for stuffy, fifty-something year-old dance tutors.

Lauren was taught approximately ten types of waltz, the foxtrot, and more at nine years of age. Rachel had agreed to it despite her child’s numerous complaints about not wanting to put up with Madame “She Looks Like A Divorced Peacock” Alistair, but through rote memory, somehow, she’d learned her way around the ballroom. And then after the Scythe’s taking of her, she had been whipped into shape by Natalia Nikiforova, a retired assassin - along with Belladonna - into learning various other advanced forms of dance.

That information shows in her movements, smooth as water, as she slides her hand into Kieran’s gloved one, the other curling around her hip. They are a good distance away from each other, but she knows this starting position, this introduction, as the band strikes up a fast number - the tango is familiar to her. Sooner or later, she is going to be very close to him. Might as well get it over with.

The guitar croons a high note as her heels clack across the floor, his feet guiding her around, as is the norm. The way they move is in broad, smooth strokes, feet pacing the tiles around the dance floor soundlessly. His hand skirts up to the broad of her back, and he pulls her forward. Lauren arches, inhaling sharply as her hair tumbles back, diamonds in place.

“I won’t worry your hair,” he murmurs in her ear. “You’d need to hardly worry about such things,  _ mon amour.” _

“My, how you flatter me,” she says, laughing to complete the facade of them being an ordinary, if not absurdly well-dressed couple. 

The tango is more similar to the waltz than most would realize: it moves in steps. One step, two step, three back, and then an entirely foreign set of steps. It relies, however, on one thing the waltz does not: passion.

“You’re rusty.” This comes from Kieran again, as he twirls her around. “Or are you just holding back?” He’s slowing down as the melody slows, spinning her around, her back meeting his chest. Her arms twine around his neck. 

“Do I look rusty?!”

“Maybe.” And then she’s face to face with those dark eyes, again, something unfamiliar playing in them. “You’re normally not this hesitant, my Lauren.”

_ My Lauren.  _ “I’m not anyone’s,” comes the uneasy answer, as their free arms come to cradle the side of their faces, moving together as one.

“But for now, you’re my partner, aren’t you?” His voice is a low timbre. “You’re hesitating.”

And that’s when she snaps. 

They share the same breath as she twirls in his arms, hands gripping the back of his collar. The dress she is wearing has a slit on the side, and so his gloved hand barely moves in time to grip her bare leg as they move in tandem, nearly hoisting her up onto his weight. The air tenses, crackling as the song shifts into a louder, more brazen song.

“There we go,” he says, and his voice is almost a growl.

“I don’t hesitate,” she rasps, and pulls at his tie, forcing him closer. What is she doing?  _ What is she doing?  _

“So show me,” he dares. 

She does. Their next set of steps is uncalculated, untempered. She moves by muscle memory, and so does he; what was once coordinated now anything but. Every time her skin brushes against his hands, it’s like being set on fire again and again, and when the song finally stops, they’re left shivering, panting with the effort. Lauren leans against him, chin on his shoulder. His hand is hooked around her hip, the other on the small of her exposed back, her own intertwined in his hair. 

The sight of Anslow is like a jolt of electricity through her veins.

“I’ve got our man,” she croaks out, and they separate only a second too late, each other’s phantom touch lingering still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire "the soft light breaking through the window from the east" sequence in the beginning is a very, very obvious homage to Romeo and Juliet.
> 
> I'll let the sun imagery speak for itself in that Kywi sequence, though. You know what's coming 👀
> 
> Yeah, I altered their dance outfits, AND? (If you want to really feel the mood of that dance scene, loop Nina Simone's 'I Put A Spell on You' over it.)
> 
> Also, you may have noticed the canon alteration just a eensy weensy bit. Certain things from S1 aren't going to happen given the context, as you might've guessed by now, due to my intent as a writer as well: my goal with Scheherazade is to make you all comfortable with the timeline - not familiar. You'll see.


	12. allegro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course we’d end up here.” He runs a hand through his hair, the two of them casting matching smirks at each other that fade as soon as they appear. Neither of them has brought up last night; to do so is to take them out of their usual routine. And from the tension in her partner’s mouth, she can tell he’s about to ruin it all.

This was not how Kieran had expected the night to go.

Anslow had been knocked out approximately ten minutes ago, thanks to his partner in crime. Lauren hadn’t had to do much besides catch Anslow’s wandering eye after their dance, barely pausing to catch her breath before luring him into the back with a wink and a crooked finger. The swell of emotion in his throat is still prominent as ever in his muscles: he can’t easily forget how she’d danced with him, or how she’d left after, too.

They’ve always had a routine, a pattern - this,  _ this -  _ this is new, and unsteady, and something Kieran does not like, because everything in his life has to be quantified and calculated save for what he puts on sketchbooks.

And vulnerabilities are for the weak.

The moon shines on their captive, and as Lauren nods to him, both of them dressed in their familiar vigilante attire, he drives all other thought out of his head and motions for her to use the smelling salts on him. He wakes with a jolt, but she holds his head back, slowly shushing him under her breath. The freckles on his cheeks glimmer in the moonlight, the glimmer of Katoptris on her back even brighter.

“Now, don’t make a single noise,” she rasps. “We don’t want that, do we?”

“You’re - how did you--”

“Tsk, tsk,” Lauren says, suddenly unsheathing a knife. “Really, I usually like it when traitors beg, but we don’t have much time, really, and we’re in a hurry. So let me make this quick - what prompted you to betray the Scythe?”

“And to jog your memory,” asks Kieran, stepping forward, letting cold light turn his face into a phantom’s, “you may want to give us a hint as to what your role is in the weapons industry again. Dissidents in those roles are becoming quite popular, aren’t they?”

“I’m only a pawn in the weapons industry, I swear--” and Kieran knows this is a lie just from the way Lauren’s brows furrow. 

“I really do hate liars,” Kieran says, sighing as he motions for Lauren to toss him the knife. With one smooth gesture, he rams it into the chair that Anslow is currently bound to, ropes straining against the man’s wriggling body. The note they’d written is still plastered to his chest.

“Do we want to try that again, now?” He flicks another knife between his gloved fingers. “I can’t guarantee a third chance, though, so you might want to make a very quick decision.”

“It’s - it’s all Apostle Seven’s doing,” blurts out Anslow, and this is what causes both of them to lean forward. “The others were dissatisfied with their roles in the ranks, but he - he’s dissatisfied with plans for the revolution, doesn’t think the Phantom Scythe is making enough progress given how--”

“Given how  _ what?” _ Lauren nearly growls, and Kieran is startled by her sudden tone of voice. 

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take over from here. Go inspect his ledger.”

The second she’s about to object, he clamps a hand to her mouth, and then shrinks away from the small touch.  _ “Go.” _

Lauren quells any retort she has and catches the ledger he tosses her way, backing into a corner. The silent tear of pages is all that fills the storage closet until he starts speaking again, and after he explains precisely  _ what  _ the letter may or may not do in reaction to the lighter fluid his partner carries, Anslow is none too hesitant to give him answers.

What a weak, weak man.

“And why would Apostle Seven choose to strike now?”  _ The man who oversaw our missions. The man who had a hand in raising us. The seventh out of twelve guardians who were hardly guardians at all. _

“He fears  _ it,”  _ hisses Anslow, at the same time Lauren pauses in her research. “The insurgents may have been a peaceful rebellion, but they did whatever it took, and now—”

Before Kieran can speak, Lauren shoves him away and holds Katoptris to Anslow’s throat, snarling. 

_ “What do you know about the insurgents?”  _ she demands.  _ “What do you know about the Snapdragon and this man?” _

He can see the picture now - a picture of a four-fingered driver, and beside that, a man that looks like Lauren’s father. 

A police siren sounds in the distance.  _ Curses. _

“I—”

“We have to go!” Kieran shouts, the whine of sirens growing louder. 

“Not now,” she says, shaking. “Not when I’m so close—”

_ “Now!”  _ he says, and before she has any chance to object, he catches her around the waist, her coat thick enough to ward off any press of skin against his. Quicker than lightning, he vaults out the window with her in tow. Something about this scares him - before, she had been so full of pure  _ rage,  _ and now she is light in his hold like a rag doll, auburn hair tumbling down in the night.

“I screwed up,” she mumbles into his jacket. “I screwed up, I screwed up—”

“The letter won’t be traceable, but yes, you  _ did,  _ and  _ shut up,”  _ Kieran reprimands, as he leaps across one rooftop to another, the moon silently watching the both of them flit away from the yawning of red and blue sirens.

____

_ Alexander was the one who— _

_ Alexander was the one who— _

_ He fears  _ it—

She’s messed up. She’s messed up so, so badly. And that’s why she doesn’t say a word when he hides them both in a dark alleyway, backing her up against a wall, standing as if he can’t bear to be close to her.

But Lauren holds her pride too close, and her anger closer, so she will  _ never apologize.  _

“What,” he demands, panting, “was  _ that?” _

“He had it,” Lauren growls. “He had it, and we let him slip away—”

“You’re not making any sense,” he breathes, but still refuses to get close to her. Neither does she, because for now, if they touch, they will burn, ignite, but in a different way than before. Lauren clutches at her own body, stumbling back, feeling her bun unravel against the pressure of hard black brick.

“The answer to the traitors. Apostle Seven. My parents - and  _ him—” _

“Him?” Kieran asks in bewilderment, and it’s only then she realizes she has never once in her life told him about Dylan. Are some secrets past their due date?

“I lost it,” she grits out, clutching at her head. “I had it there, and I put us both in danger, and I lost it.”

He falls silent. 

“Listen. If you want - need - help with this—”

“I don’t want anything,” she says, and it spills out of her in an exhausted rush. The photo she’d nabbed still resides in her fist. “Just go, Kier.”

“Lauren—”

_ “Go.” _

It hurts more when he actually does.

___

The winter deepens, and the cold worsens. The garden and corresponding forest the Foxglove Compound houses slowly turn barren and leafless, covered in shades of white, but the training grounds are still frequented by Lauren even in relatively chilly weather - just enough to nip at her thick clothing and eliminate any lingering anger in her mind, filling it with a numb that is a welcome abandon. She used to come here more often in her teenage years, bruising herself with countless scars - scars on her arms and legs and hands, from teaching herself how to tread lightly on treetops, how to move faster than any other assassin with heavy weapons strapped to her back, or with her hands and feet in binds. 

Today, that day is no different. In the early morning, fog clouds escape her mouth as she works her way around a circle of straw dummies, hair up in a harsh ponytail, hands covered in loose bandages. On a normal day, she would’ve picked up a weapon of her choosing, and trained with it. When she’d mastered Katoptris, she had moved on to knives, and then a staff, and then - at the Phantom Scythe’s exasperation - a gun. 

_ You would’ve made a nice officer,  _ Belladonna had said sarcastically, once.  _ Or detective. _

Lauren fists her hand into the neck of the straw dummy, and its head comes clean off, scattering straw everywhere. She steps back, still in position, panting.

“Had your fill, Scarlet?”

_ Scarlet. _

“Don’t call me that,” she retorts, adjusting the bandages. “You haven’t shown up in weeks, and now you come here just to bother me?”

“Am I a bother?” pouts Belladonna, the fur on her coat ruffling. “Dear me, my apologies.”

“Why are you here?”

“Heard about your botched mission last night.” Ice lines the pit of her stomach as Belladonna walks forward, inspecting Lauren’s pale face, splotches of red on her cheeks from hours of working out pent-up anger. And something else entirely. “You’re lucky Kieran gave Anslow a knock to the head after it all went wrong. He doesn’t remember it was Lune who captured him. I suppose now you’re here to brood and exercise out your feelings, as usual.”

The undertone coating the viper's voice doesn’t escape her. “The mission went fine.  **There was no accident.** ”

“Interesting how the look on Kieran’s face said otherwise.”

“Each to our own, Bella,” Lauren warns, stepping forward. “You’ve been gone for a while now.”

“I was overseeing shipments. Be lucky you got the interesting stuff,” she says, snorting as she waves a perfectly manicured hand. The diamonds on her ears swing in tandem. “Chemical manufacturings overseas were sent in a week ago. I’m just back to do reconnaissance. With a partner, unfortunately,” she says with clear disgust. “Just be glad yours isn’t an eyesore.”

“Everyone you work with is an eyesore,” Lauren quips, against her better judgement. Belladonna merely laughs. 

“Always so straightforward,  _ Scarlet,”  _ she drawls, ignoring Lauren’s right hand suddenly clenching. “That’s never changed. Oh, well. We all can’t have a platonic partner we’re bound to for life.”

“Lucky me,” Lauren grits out, rolling her duffel bag over her shoulder. She stops in her tracks, head running through what Belladonna had just said moments earlier. “Who’s overseeing the chemical shipments?”

“Apostle Seven.” Belladonna raises a brow. “Intriguing man, really. Quite bent on getting things done as soon as possible.”

“For the revolution?”

“As if  _ he _ cares about the revolution?” she says with all the bitterness she can muster, and suddenly, Lauren sees their old childhood rivalry coming to life once more. “Please. Neither do any of us. The only reason any of us are here is because we’re fighting a war that we want to be the victor of. That’s the only reason any one of us does anything. And it’s why you do what you do, Scarlet.” Belladonna’s voice softens, not sweet in the slightest. “For the ‘greater cause,’ no?”

“Your partner must be quite the eyesore if you’re this infuriated about your duty.” She watches the willow trees shake their arms in the wind. The Golden Viper shakes her head, as if she’s anticipated Lauren’s answer already. 

“Keep your secrets, then.” Belladonna’s red lips curve up in a smile before she leaves, nothing but the scent of jasmine flowers trailing in her wake. “Just make sure they don’t keep you.”

____

She knows where he is - she doesn’t even have to seek him out. But it seems as if he’s had the exact same idea she has, because they both nearly crash into each other in the alleyway of the back of the Grim Goblin, startling each other.

“Don’t tell me you were staking out Blakesley,” Kieran intones.

“You were doing the same thing, weren’t you?” Before he can answer, she speaks again. “She’s most likely one of the most prominent traitors. And I have new information to prove it.”

“Of course we’d end up here.” He runs a hand through his hair, the two of them casting matching smirks at each other that fade as soon as they appear. Neither of them has brought up last night; to do so is to take them out of their usual routine. And from the tension in her partner’s mouth, she can tell he’s about to ruin it all.

“If I overstepped a boundary last night--” He breaks off, falling silent. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“I deserved it,” she says, shaking her head. Confronting only one issue out of the many that permeate the air between them will serve them better for now, with so much at stake. “It’s fine. Really.”

Kieran looks uncertain, but still goes on. “We both know the rules. I wouldn’t want them to go after us because of our disagreements.”

“They’re not going to,” she reassures, putting on a false show of bravado. “You’re still my friend, despite being a constant thorn in my side.”

“A  _ thorn in your side?”  _ he demands, flicking a strand of hair out of her forehead while she laughs, and just like that, they’re back to normal. But as Kieran slings an arm around her shoulders, her hand on his back, their debacle from last night rises in her mind, pushing all other thought out of her head. 

_ Just don’t let your secrets keep you. _

_ He will be your partner for the foreseeable future,  _ the Apostles had agreed,  _ and you know there will be nothing more. _

“I think I should handle the Snapdragon investigation. Alone.” He tosses her a look, and she waves it off. “ **Just for the sake of splitting duties.** Trust me on this.”

“Lauren--”

“Trust me,” she insists, plastering a smile on her face.  **“I’m fine.”**

Kieran frowns, but doesn’t push further. And Lauren is grateful for the fact that he doesn’t, because if he did, if he had, she would’ve fallen apart, the horrible, horrible truth of her being a worse hypocrite and liar than him coming out of her in one big rush. What is he to her? She doesn’t know anymore.

_ Don’t lie to me, ever,  _ she’d made him swear. How ironic. 

“Well, if that’s settled, we’ve both staked out her house, which means we can most likely start gathering information on her tonight.” Kieran stretches out his arms, the light pooling around his figure, reminding her of a languid cat in the sunset. “How’s midnight?”

“A bit after one. Her guards will be on the off rotation by then.” She tips her cap down. “I’ll meet you there.”

And before he can protest, she’s gone.

____

Beatrice Blakesley has, however, anticipated their arrival. 

“You’re getting nothing out of me,” she sneers. “Please. After seeing McTrevor outed and Anslow caught by the police? That man may have been an idiot, but I didn’t get this far by being careless.”

She swivels around to see a gang of four assassins break down the door, equipped with identical black clothing and swords. Lauren’s hand darts to Katoptris on impulse, Kieran already levying his katana. The woman in their bindings laughs, hazel hair spilling down her elaborate blue dress. It’s like dealing with an older, more bitter Belladonna - one who she should’ve captured  _ easily  _ by now. 

“Time to go,” Kieran shouts without preamble, and in unison, they leap out the window. The clatter of her heels deafens as the assassins leap out of the house in hot pursuit, blue light from the sky casting an almost eerily dark set of shadows upon them all. A clang of metal sounds behind her; Kieran’s engaged in a fight with one of the men. Almost instantly, she falls next to him, back to back as they face down their attackers.

“And here I thought I was going to miss my daily training regiment,” he deadpans. 

“Get in the exercise while you still can,” she says, smirking ruthlessly as she faces down two opponents swinging their shortswords.

And they move as one.

She dodges the first strike, surefire as water, moving to defend him while she attacks. Katoptris is a golden halo in her hand, and she thrusts at her attackers, slashing back and forth to drive them back. The crack of her fist meets the first attacker’s head, who tumbles down the roof, and a bolt of pain courses down her side as her second attacker comes running after her, dodging her blows. Her sword wants to aim true, for a heart,  _ needs it,  _ and that’s when she moves to deliver the finishing move that will paint her in her signature color—

He falls to the side, unconscious. Kieran needs no signal to disarm the last assassin behind him, rendering him unconscious.

She could’ve—

He  _ stopped  _ her.

“We can’t risk staying,” he says, grabbing her hand. “Come with me, we need to get back to the Foxglove—”

“You stopped me,” she says, pulling him back. “Why?!”

He hesitates, then gives in, sighing. “She would’ve  _ known  _ it was you _.  _ Let’s go, Lauren.”

It’s a horrible excuse, but she follows him into the dark anyhow, because that’s what she’s always done. And when they get back to their cave in the compound, they fall into a silent routine, resting both their blades on the weapons rack, undoing their clothing one by one. Lauren glances behind her as she strips down to her undershirt and pants - and promptly freezes. Scars decorate his back, old and new, with some freshly added. 

The occasional wincing. The silent agonies. They all make sense now. 

And to think she’s been so  _ blind. _

“Let me help you,” she says suddenly, and he turns around in shock, adjusting the bandages on his back. Some of them are rusted with old blood. 

“It’s fine,” he says, brushing it off. “Really, just—”

“Don’t be stupid,” she exclaims, scoffing. “Give me those bandages.  **You’ve been doing a horrible job.** ”

“Thanks for the compliment,” he says, breaking off in a wince as she strips off his old bandages. Lauren rips off a white strand with her teeth, winding it around his waist to begin with. His skin is hot to the touch, and she resists trailing her fingers over smooth muscle. 

“We’re not at risk now,” she starts, beginning to tighten them, “so can you stop lying to my face and tell me why you actually stopped me?”

He inhales sharply as she knots the gauze around his midriff. 

“You kill even when you’re not ordered to,” he says slowly, “and I don’t think you realize what that does to you.”

She looks up at him in disbelief. “We are  _ assassins,  _ Kieran. If this is about the sanctity of my soul, I urge you to take a better look at it. You can’t save something that’s been tainted already. We both are.”

“This isn’t about - our  _ morality,”  _ he insists, as she strips off another section. “Believe me, I know that as well as you do. I don’t need you...losing yourself,” he says, and she pauses in her motions. “I don’t want you to get caught up in something darker than this.”

She finishes tightening the last bandage. “So you’re worried about me.”

“Is there a time where I haven’t been?” Lauren laughs at the exasperation on his face.

“Fair.” He looks down at her when she’s stepped back. She draws her gaze away from his exposed eyes, almost searching for something in her own. “Tell me where you got those scars. I don’t need to die over worrying about you too.”

“One day,” he promises, and the last of grudges Lauren keeps in her chest fades as he rests his head on her shoulder, her hand reaching up to stroke his hair.

She’s had enough fighting with Kieran to last a lifetime.

For now, at least - in this moment, there can be peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU HAVE CAPTURED A RARE POKEMON - THE LATE NIGHT CHAPTER! 
> 
> Ah, well, well, well. Adult Lauren and Kieran are still idiots, and that hasn't changed, but...hmm...do I sniff...long-held differences with each other's viewpoints? Do I smell lingering tension, and not the good kind? I think it starts with an A and ends with a NGST, but hey, I could always be wrong.
> 
> No Kywi this chapter: that's to prepare you for the next. We did get our favorite cotton-candy colored snake this chapter, though. Three cheers for cotton candy viper.


	13. orbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m heading home to take care of some things."
> 
> “Are they urgent?” she says, her voice suddenly cold and high. Will looks down at her. The lamplight casts shadows over her face, and her hair is swept back, blue strands framing her face, hazel eyes devoid of their familiar arrogant glimmer. And then he realizes her hand is clenched tight around that pocketwatch of hers. Gold, with a chain attached to the top. 
> 
> “You don’t want me around,” he says, out of instinct, “if this is another escapade of yours.”

Today, the streets are quiet, and Will’s mind isn’t filled to the brim with things to worry about, despite his home situation, which is maybe why he just so happens to catch his breath outside a music shop in the 11th precinct, stretching his limbs as his face meets the bright gold of the clear sky. One of Ardhalis’s rarest occurrences, rare as a heavy snowfall. 

It’s nice, really. To catch a small break like this. Even the times like these when he has no patrol duty, they’re often hectic and demand more of him to go around. It’s getting harder to perfect the golden boy illusion these days; he needs to stop somehow or he’ll crack straight through the middle of his porcelain mask. 

But that day isn’t today.

And besides, he can handle it. 

Schott’s, the shop he currently rests outside of, has glass panels to show off its antiquities inside. Phonographs for sale, instruments in the back, miniature music boxes in the front of the shop in shades of baby blue and chickadee yellow, decorated with primrose pink and slightly rough-hewn, either crafted out of wood or metal. The largest is a carousel, lifelike, with horses circling the center. The smallest is a woman and man dancing in a circle. Will runs his hands over the glass, something pricking at the back of his mind. The song that echoes through the small gaps in the windows is familiar, almost.

_ “Crimson as a wine-stained sea, that’s the color of Beltone far and wide.” _

His fingers tighten reflexively. His mother used to sing this to him as a child. 

Ardhalis’s - the country’s - unofficial anthem. Recited by songwriters over and over again. Sung by drunk men and women in pub halls. Lonesome figures in the dark to their lovers.

_ “Gold as the fields yonder and near, that’s the hue of that old Beaubonne countryside,” crooned Josephine Hawkes, when she was still whole and hale, her hair a dark gold, eyes a lovely azure. “I admire the green of my sweetheart’s eyes within old Orseau, I see nothing but beauty in Seltel’s violet glow.” _

_ “I know the rest of the verses,” insisted Will, pouting, looking particularly stubborn for a five-year-old, adjusting the stuffy red bow at his collar. _

_ “Do you?” teased Josephine, turning up the volume on the phonograph. “Would you like to join me, then, love?” _

The music grows louder.

_ “But I’ve got a heart that seeks out a home. I’ve got a heart that looks for those like my own.”  _

_ “And I know that nowhere I go,”  _ Will murmurs, oblivious to the approaching figure in the alleyway to his right,  _ “I’ll always seek out the one place that I can never say adieu.” _

_ “I left my heart in the old Ardhalis blue,”  _ whispers Kym in his ear, and he jumps back, snapping out of his reverie.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he babbles, adjusting his tie, coughing as he stands up straighter. “Our break ends in a while. You’ll need to be at the station soon.”

“So why are you not at the station?” Kym says, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Oh, and don’t bother covering up what you were doing.”

“Which is?”

“I know the song, too,” she says, oddly soft. “I don’t exactly sound like a bullfrog when I hum  _ ‘Left My Heart In The Old Ardhalis Blue,’ _ you know.”

“So you’re implying that I do,” Will drones, and she snickers.

“Maybe.” Kym yawns, rubbing at her eyes. She tugs her coat over her shoulder, holding up a hand to shield herself from the sun. “Man, I could really go for a watermelon right now. You know what happened earlier? Some crazy lady came running into my arms, crying about her beloved butler. My shirt still has mascara stains.”

“And you’re telling me this because?” Will could be imagining things, but a flicker of hurt passes in Kym’s eyes before she reverts to her normal cocky, silly self.

“She wouldn’t have given a damn about her - butler,” Kym says, shuddering, “if you were there. Would’ve adored your  _ lovely blue eyes,”  _ she cackles. He does nothing in response but rolls his eyes.

“If she acts like that around her butler, I must look like the back of a truck.”

“Oh, you _ definitely _ couldn’t compare to this guy,” she exclaims, laughing harder. She glances down at her pocketwatch, inspecting the cracked glass. “Ah, almost time. Race ya back to the building.”

“Like old times,” he groans, readying his feet. “I really do hate you.”

“Suck it up, future Lieutenant!” she yells, sprinting ahead of him, giggling with mirth as he yells at her to slow down, only a few feet behind her as they make their way down the street.

____

She wins, of course, just like how she’d won at target practice, and at the obstacle course, and at final exam time.

Kym doesn’t necessarily fool him blind, however. He knows this is her way of going back to their old dynamic of being workplace enemies, even - because she’s terrible at apologizing, and just acts like everything is normal between them again.

So Will doesn’t bring up investigating the Phantom Scythe, much less the Purple Hyacinth again. Instead, he goes back to beating her at paperwork. And beats her with ease, this one simple task, because if there’s anything she hates more than anything else, it’s paperwork. And soon, the precinct building closes, leaving the two of them alone in the late evening. Blue light filters in from the evening sky, as Will tugs on his uniform coat.

“You’re leaving?”

“Apparently, because you still haven’t finished your boatload of work,” he says, gesturing to her desk. “I’m heading home to take care of some things.”

“Are they urgent?” she says, her voice suddenly cold and high. Will looks down at her. The lamplight casts shadows over her face, and her hair is swept back, blue strands framing her face, hazel eyes devoid of their familiar arrogant glimmer. And then he realizes her hand is clenched tight around that pocketwatch of hers. Gold, with a chain attached to the top. 

“You don’t want me around,” he says, out of instinct, “if this is another escapade of yours.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to say anything,” she snaps, but it’s not in anger. Kym stands suddenly, tucking the pocketwatch, muttering something that sounds like  _ three months  _ under her breath. “I’m doing target practice. I want you to judge. Your voice is abrasive anyhow.”

“Glad to hear it,” he flat out lies, but doesn’t know why he stops her from walking out, a hand on her shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I will be,” Kym says, brushing his hand off. “Let’s go, Hawkes.”

_ “Are you gonna hesitate? Are you?” _

Will shakes the memory from his mind like he would cobwebs, and follows her.

The practice range is empty at this time of day, which is typical, so Kym unloads a gun from her holster and turns off the safety, like they’ve been taught to do a million times before. Will waits behind her, watching how her stance turns easy to hard, water to ice, unyielding and cold. He recognizes that anger of hers. He doesn’t fear it.

He fears her losing herself to whatever past she clings to. 

But they all have their ghosts, and she doesn’t appreciate his company, and he can’t possibly take hers, so he says nothing.

The first bullet hands as a headshot. So does the second. The third aims for the heart.

The next four do too. 

Will hands her a set of bullets as she reaches behind her, her fingers momentarily grazing his. But she doesn’t flinch from his touch, just numbly loads the bullets into her pistol. He still doesn’t speak until she’s unleashed all her anger, and when she has, the target looks less like a target than it does a paper corpse full of holes.

“Kym,” he says softly. 

She’s still panting, holding a hand to her brow. “What?” she demands, and it’s barely a rasp.

“I--” He draws back. “I’m here if you need. To talk. About anything.”

It only takes a couple of minutes to pass before she straightens back up, still refusing to look him in the eye.

“Thanks for the offer.” She turns on the safety, glancing back at him. “But I’ll pass.” 

“Maybe one day,” Will says. “When you don’t detest my guts.”

Kym snorts, adjusting her holster as she tucks in her pistol. “Sure thing,  _ Williame.  _ I wasn’t the one that started it all.”

“Kym--”

“You were the one that refused my bountiful friendship,” she drawls, wiggling her fingers. “Ah, but no longer. I’m tired, and so are you. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” he repeats under his breath as she walks away, into the distant night, leaving him there in an abandoned practice range, the smell of gunmetal and bullets still poignant in the air.

____

  
  
  


“Bella visited me a while ago.” Lauren exhales, watching steam clouds escape her lips. Her blue coat sways around her, buttoned up to the high collar, ruffles on her white blouse whistling in the wind. “I’m almost certain from what I gleaned that Apostle Seven is, indeed, engineering most of the Scythe’s traitors. We couldn’t nip in the bud immediately, but it would prove to be a short-term solution to usurp him.”

Ardhalis is gray in the evening, swiftly covering up any blue sky. Ironic, really, considering the song that drifts through music halls every now and then. Kieran’s eyes still pierce the fog, though, his figure dressed in a long scarf and beige coat. “I’m just surprised you don’t want to kill him right here and now.”

“Murder may be an effective solution, but in this case, it would only create a power vacuum.” She tugs up the white of her scarf, hair floating above it in red spirals - brown in the light. “And neither of us would be allowed as Apostles. They’d have our heads.”

“Interesting.” He raises his head to the sky. “And yes, you’re right. We’d rather stay alive for now. But we would need solid proof of his plans. I should be able to track down Seven’s movement around the city.”

“More infiltration,” she says, more to herself than anything. “To be honest, I’m getting sick of playing pretend games.”

“So am I.” If she’d been paying attention to him, and not the first few trickles of snowflakes falling down from the sky, she’d have noticed him looking at her a little too hard, then looking away just as quick. “But we do what we have to do. Any new information on the Snapdragon?”

She stops in her tracks, heels clicking against the pavement. 

“All I know is that my father is behind it.” Lauren clenches her fists. “I don’t want to have to infiltrate Sinclair Manor for my father’s records again, but I’m planning something this week. It still puzzles me how a pacifist group went astray.”

“It could be due to new leaders.”

“Or due to simple human corruption,” she huffs, crossing her arms. He stops next to her. “It’s a little funny, don’t you think?” Lauren continues, laughing mirthlessly. “You were taught lies as a child, and born with the ability to detect them. And yet - they only grow worse around you as you grow older, and older, and older. A gift becoming a curse.” She brushes aside the red flickering in front of her face. “I’m still no closer to finding out the truth than I was seven years ago.”

He doesn’t hesitate to speak.“I could do it.” 

Lauren swivels around in confusion, but he’s waiting there expectantly, no hint of hesitance on his face. “If you wanted, I could infiltrate your family manor for you.”

She blinks in surprise, smiling. “That won’t be necessary. I’m fine without.”

“If you insist,” Kieran says. “Let me at least accompany you back to the Foxglove.”

“You said you had something you needed to pick up from your apartment,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Go. I’ll meet you back--”  _ Home,  _ she almost says, but the word fades. “I’ll meet you back at the compound. Promise.”

He looks as if he’s about to protest, but the two stand there in the snowfall, apart from one another, adrift like ships in the night. “Alright.”

“Alright,” she repeats, and watches him go. 

She doesn’t watch him turn around as she does, both of them walking back to back.

____

Muscle memory can either work in Lauren’s favor, or it can’t. 

Today, it does not. She’d meant to go to one of the repair stations within the compound after her shortsword’s hilt had cracked down the middle - no doubt a result of throwing it too hard into dummies - but realized too late that her feet had taken her down the west wing, and consequently, into Kieran’s new room, larger than his old quarters.

“Seriously.” He looks more exasperated than she’s ever seen him. “You broke your  _ sword.” _

“I didn’t break the blade, idiot,” she hisses, swatting him on the shoulder, bumping against him as she sidles into the room. “Surely you know how to fix this.”

“I do, and you’re lucky that I do,” Kieran says, rolling his eyes, as he finishes drying his hair, tossing the towel onto his bed, inspecting Katoptris in his hands. “Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t immediately take this to repairs.”

Lauren bounces on the balls of her feet. “They’re closed for now, you know.”

“Stupid hours.” He sighs into his palm. “Fine, fine. Just give me a minute.”

The hilt is a double-grafted bronze design, with a typical triangular make on either side, so thankfully, Kieran doesn’t have to resort to replacing the entire handle, and only merely tightens up the metal so it doesn’t crack again. 

She can tell he doesn’t expect her coming out of the shower when he’s done, though.

“Decided to crash my room, have you,  _ mon bien-aimee?”  _ he says, avoiding eye contact with her as she sits on the edge of the bed next to him. She winds her hair into a braid - it isn’t as if she’s stark naked, only in a loose tank and shorts. Nothing he hasn’t seen before.

“Somehow.” She looks down. “I needed the company.”

Kieran’s teasing expression fades. “You could’ve just told me.”

_ It’s harder to tell you everything these days.  _ “Distract me. That’s all I’m asking for.” She falls onto the sheets, stretching out her legs. “And don’t you dare regale me about your garden tales. I already know about your thousand and one hyacinth babies.”

“They’re positively entertaining,” he snorts, falling beside her. “Look to your right.”

“What - oh.” 

The sky has cleared, allowing for a view of the night sky, full of stars twinkling above. A presence grows near, and Lauren turns back around, only to almost bump noses with Kieran on his side, elevating his head on his hand, his other hand behind his back.

“Didn’t tell you to look away,” he says, raising an eyebrow. She grumbles as she turns back over, sensing his awful grin growing as he points to the night sky. “You can see the constellations tonight. The Northern Star, too.”

“And let me guess - you know their names, too.”

“Cassoepia, Perseus,” Kieran recites, “and to your right, Mars - the brightest in the sky. Not a star from this distance, though it looks like it.”

“I can’t see it,” she admits, and blinks in surprise when he grips her shoulder lightly, adjusting her position.

“See now?” he says, gesturing to a select formation of stars. “Perspective.”

Lauren dares not look behind her. “Yeah. Perspective.” 

Somehow, she doesn’t remember falling asleep soon after that. But the lantern light grows dim, and in the early morning, when the sky is still an inky sea, she wakes up to a rustling in the bed. When Lauren cracks her eyes open, he’s sitting on the edge, hair falling freely over his face. She stands up, pacing quietly over to his side.

“Can’t sleep again?” she asks, and when he nods, she offers up her hand. Lauren sees the bags under his eyes, the pallor in his normally warm skin. He waves it away, instead pushing himself up, arranging his hair into a messy bun at the nape of his head. Little strands fall in front of his face like a curtain, and she turns her head away as they swallow up the sapphire of his eyes, clear as an evening sky. 

When did looking at him make it hard to breathe? 

Perhaps she’s always looked too long, and too hard.

“Well?” Lauren snaps out of her reverie to see him standing there, his katana sheathed in its hold, dangling from his belt. Katoptris sings in her hand, her rumpled day clothing still on her. She knows what he needs: to forget. The equivalent of his hand on her pulse. Now her blade will rest against his in the battle she chooses for him, evenly matched. It’s been him and her, always, and their duel has been seven years and more in the making.

“Don’t expect me to go easy on you,” she mutters.

“As if,” he says, snorting. “Darling, you know I’ll beat you in a heartbeat.”

She nudges him to the side as he laughs, both of them as walking out of the compound and into the garden, into the view of the sky, framed by starlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassiopeia was a tragic figure in Greek mythology who fell to her own vanity; in contrast, Perseus was one of the few heroes in Greek mythology who actually had - get this - a happy ending.
> 
> I'd like to thank RhymeZone.com, the thirty hours of Vera Lynn and Nina Simone I listened to on Spotify, and William Hawkes for being the ultimate simp he is to get me through writing the lyrics to 'Left My Heart In The Old Ardhalis Blue'. This song is going to show up in future chapters. You'll see. Will and Kym can both sing in canon, so...little hints for what's to come. I'm trying not to type out chapters as fast as I can to get to the 20s-zone, because that's when Ultimate Spice happens, but I don't want to commit Writer's Seppuku, so...the struggle...nghhh.
> 
> Also. ALSO. You've been waiting for it. I've been torturing you long enough. 
> 
> The Kieran vs. Lauren duel is officially happening next chapter. Get your tears ready, folks. My jars are empty this fall.


	14. gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hesitate for you,” Lauren whispers without thinking. She can’t look away from him, and neither can he, as they stand close to each other, under the slow embrace of moonlight rippling over the edges of the rocks, the trees, the flower bushes, their home. The Scarlet Queen has no weakness. Lauren Sinclair has one. “Only you.”

The door to the office closes shut as a slender hand moves to click the lock on the doorknob. A man takes his place at one of the many desks, rubbing at his tawny hair, finally flipping open a folder with a select profile of someone he’d been investigating for months now - alongside a picture clipped to the file.

“You can do it,” breathes Harvey Wood, mustering up all the courage he possesses in his rabbit’s heart. “Just a couple of words, that’s all it takes. And they’ll be dealt with. Your family’s counting on you.”

His pale, trembling hands reach for the photograph, holding it close to his face. The shadows make no noise behind him as someone gradually moves into the light, unsheathing her blade.

“Brave words,” says a female voice scornfully, and before Harvey can turn around in time, unimaginable pain fills his body, like a thousand electric volts scalding his veins, his skin. Pain like he’s never felt before, ripping him of any and all consciousness, of sanity. And when he falls at Belladonna’s feet, she moves back disdainfully, the gold of her sword hilt a bright yellow in the darkness, parched for more.

She holds back for now.

“But meaningless,” she whispers, rouged lips pulled back in a sneer, “and pathetic.”

____

  
  


Birdsong echoes through the garden, vibrant and clear as glass. Some of the stars above have hidden their faces, but in the clearing, Lauren can still spot some peeking out of the black night, tipped with a slight halo of pink and blue, the dawn sky soon approaching. Kieran hasn’t stopped walking, however, and they descend out of the clearing into the thicker wood, where trees cover most of the underbrush.

As soon as she opens her mouth to speak, flickers of light pulse in front of her eyes.

Lightning bugs, all around them, illuminating the thicket. Kieran is a broad figure in front of her, katana at his side, standing across from her in a patient stance, waiting for her to adjust to their surroundings. Midwinter has stolen most of the normally thick grass beneath her feet, the velvet plush of flower bushes, berry patches, but evergreens still tower above them both, seemingly waiting for their spectators to start.

Even in this darkened night, she can see his eyes: a dark ocean, not their usual blue, the blue she knows. This will be no duel where no one wins - there must be a victor, and whether or not it is either of them will remain up to her and her alone.

He needs a challenge, fast and brutal and quick on its feet. She can give that much to him. She’s always been the one to best him in the end.

The air seems to crackle with tension as he raises a hand, crooking a single finger. Beckoning. “Do you want to keep staring, or are you going to attack?”

“Know your enemy first,” she quotes, from one of the many war tactics they’ve studied over the years, and slides into an offensive stance: her feet apart and wide, holding Katoptris high, parallel to her jaw, the tip pointed directly at him.

And _moves--_

____

_\--through the flower garden._

_She had been on the eve of her thirteenth birthday, wandering around the garden for flowers to pick. Kieran liked hyacinths, she knew, but he also liked marigolds, and camellias. But they were hard to find, and that’s how she ended up crawling a tall tree covered in vines, steading herself against harsh bark. Her parents would’ve barked at her something along the lines of this not being ladylike, and truth be told, she’d never been much of a rough and tumble girl, so this was a little tough for her._

_The flowers were honey-sweet in their scent, in shades of white and pink and red, and they blossomed in her hands, soft and supple in a little girl’s palms. Lauren gently crawled down the side of the tree branch, steading her feet against wood knots, seemingly taking care with her dress, to not get it caught on much._

_Until red silk caught on another branch, and she swung wildly in the air, upside down, dangling there with crimson around her face, auburn pointing towards the ground in wild spirals. Her white stockings were going to be positively wrecked._

_Her face turned a matching red as someone came crashing through the thicket, wielding a practice staff._

_“Seriously?” Kieran was smirking, oblivious to her scowl or the flowers on the ground. “Do I want to know?”_

_“I was looking for something,” she sniped back at him haughtily. “Get me down!”_

_“As you wish,” he said, bowing mockingly, and she yelped as he tugged her dress off the branch, Lauren landing in a heap on the ground, not ladylike whatsoever._

_“Practice with Three was going fine, up until you had to scream. I thought someone was being murdered,” he said, flicking dirt off her cheek as she stood. “What were you even looking for?”_

_“None of your business, thank you very much,” she said, hiding the flowers in her pockets that were still there. “How loud was I?”_

_“Loud,” Kieran answered, raising a brow. “He’s quite upset that you disrupted the session. He wants you to duel me and win as recompense, otherwise you’ll get chore duty again for the week.”_

_She groaned, loudly. “Again?”_

_“Again.” He handed her his staff. “Come on, I’ll let you win.”_

_“Let me?!” she demanded. “I could beat you any time, any day.”_

_“Oh, is that so?” Kieran crossed his arms, dubious. “Prove it then. Go into the ring right now with me. And don’t hold back.”_

_“I don’t have to,” she quipped, and when they were both in the ring, the whistle blown, their weapons levied at each other, he raised a hand._

_“Your move,” he dared, a dazzling smile on his face, and she moved--_

____

\-- _quicker than a flash,_ aiming the first blow as a hit to his stomach. He meets her sword with his easily, parrying her attacks one by one. But Lauren, the one to usually retreat as a tactic, moves forward this time, making him retreat into the undergrowth, slamming Katoptris against silver, over and over again.

_Work with me here,_ she thinks, as he meets one of her blows again. _Show me what you’ve got._

Kieran’s mouth twitches upward as his katana nearly grazes her shoulder, suddenly on the offensive. She doesn’t fear him hurting her, though; she can trust in that much, because the predatory stare absent from his eyes is reserved only for his victims, his enemies, not his equals. His only equal, who dodges his weapon as it slices through the air, as the lightning bugs around them pulse in time to their rhythm, a dance.

The pressure comes soon. She’s working up a sweat as they tread deeper into the forest, the sounds of rushing water meeting her ears. Lauren flips over a rock as they brush the end of the river, bronze twirling in mid-air as she parries his attack, like a fencer, her tip barely meeting his weapon. He hasn’t worn out yet, the blue slowly coming into his eyes, she the artist at the helm, for once - not ruining, not destroying, but giving - circulating azure in the crepuscular formation of his irises.

Water splashes around her feet, the ice cracking as she lands directly into the stream. Lauren shivers as Kieran circles her, the movement silent even as he walks around the small body of water, waiting, chasing.

It isn’t enough yet. She has to push forward. It really is like an art of war, maneuvering around your opponent, waiting for them to chase you - and so he does, flinging his sword parallel to his body, leaping high as she tears herself from the stream quick as a flash. Lauren’s rote memory takes over as she shoves him forward with a swift kick to the abdomen, the clanging of metal growing louder in the dark as she makes him retreat back into the clearing with ferocity, in a series of swift attacks that leave him breathless.

When he sweeps a leg under her to throw her off, she rolls over, holding up her body with only her hands, pulling him with her into a crouch that ends with her sword against his. Her hand briefly presses into his chest, and they stare at each other too long, the air now thick and hot and all too familiar with a feeling that grows in her core, fluttering.

Kieran tugs her off, something she’s grateful for, and they meet again in the middle, gold and silver separating their faces.

“I’m not going to let you win,” she grits out.

“I didn’t think you would.” He lets his sword drop from his left into his right, and she leans back to avoid being slashed into, jumping into a standing pose to barely block his attack in time.

Looking back, she could’ve aimed for his heart.

But she didn’t.

Too late, he’s reaching for her, and she doesn’t have enough time to dodge before his arm snakes around her waist, pulling her forward.

Metal meets her lower leg, and she inhales as Katoptris hangs from her side as a deadweight. His own katana traces her throat, barely touching skin. She can’t move. She can’t _move._

“I won,” he breathes, and Lauren shudders as her sword presses against her thigh. “You were being careless, _mon bien-aimee_.”

  
  
“I hesitate for you,” Lauren whispers without thinking. She can’t look away from him, and neither can he, as they stand close to each other, under the slow embrace of moonlight rippling over the edges of the rocks, the trees, the flower bushes, their home. The Scarlet Queen has no weakness. Lauren Sinclair has one. “Only you.”

  
  
He drops his sword. Maybe Kieran White has one as well.

  
  
“Bad thing to do,” he says, voice husky and strangled in her ear.

His lips are at her jaw now, tracing every curve, every pulse, and somehow she knows that this is only natural, the curiosity of exploring the other, but as they stand there, transfixed, nothing feels simple, and the stars are growing brighter behind her eyes.

“Go on, then.” The voice that speaks comes out of a mouth far too close to her own. “Say you yield.”

She can’t speak. It’s impossible to.

“I can’t,” she croaks out, and it’s as if those are the magic words to snap him out of it. He stumbles back from her, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly.

“Forgive me.” He bows, black hair falling over his face, a prince of starlight. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

And before she can call him back, he’s gone, walking past her, into the compound alone.

____

  
  


No one hears the slip of a lock and key turning in the middle of the early morning, nor the footsteps of a figure treading lightly inside Sinclair Manor.

Kieran curses under his breath as he recognizes the voice coming in from downstairs - the voice of the city’s very own Chief of Police, Lauren’s uncle. The man must never sleep, then, calling someone at nearly half past three. But no matter - his former scan of the house informs him that the library is not on the first floor, where Tristan Sinclair happens to be at the moment.

Getting through the unused room in the house is easier than he’d expected; the room looks like it hasn’t been touched in ten years and has been left unlocked for the rest of the house. Some sort of girl’s room - Lauren’s, he realizes, with a pang of sadness - and it fades from his eyes as he darts into the hallway, not pausing for a second.

The library itself is that of a typical upper-class family’s, large and expansive in nature. It takes Kieran a couple of minutes to wind around endless oak shelves of tomes and files before he comes to a section of what looks like personal records - his partner’s parents and relatives stare back at him, captured in permanent black and white ink photos.

As expected, there is a snapdragon pin in one of the cases. It solidifies any theories he had about her parents’ involvement.

The letter he collects alongside this information, however, quickly puzzles him further.

_Alexander,_

_I plead you to stray from this path. Our country may be in turbulent times, but it always has been so. Aligning with a society - much less them embracing you as one of their first - will do more shame to this state, much less our beloved city, than the good you think it will do. The lower classes are already targeted by the royals themselves for daring to rebel. And if you are found with this organization, guilty, despite your peaceful intent, what then?_

_My son, I understand what you feel. The socialists have grown increasingly desperate. All the more reason for you not to get involved - the social order will not change, however, and nor should it. The Aevasthers have already made this clear, for all their control over the people. The amount of officials and spies in their ranks they send out put us all in danger, and you would do well to keep your head down. We were not made foxes by nature._

_Wishing you well with love,_

_Marianne Sinclair_

  
  


The date on the letter reads _05.16.XX14._

XX14 - Kieran remembers that year. The year where socialist propaganda had gotten particularly vocal, and socialist sympathizers practically locked up in jail cells every day of the year. It wasn’t a coincidence that not soon after, the Phantom Scythe had formed as an official organization.

Except that it wasn’t a coincidence, and the revelation Kieran was beginning to come to left him reeling.

The protests had been peaceful - _until_ the monarchy sent out spies. The protests had been peaceful - _until_ they _suddenly_ became violent.

He clutches a hand to his forehead, staring down images of flowers that lined the fragile paper. There was something here. Something missing. Something behind the formation of the Phantom Scythe that seemed unnatural.

And the Snapdragon’s sudden turn to violence - had it not been out of anger, but desperation?

Tristan’s voice grows louder, and Kieran ducks behind a bookshelf, running out of the library with the note in his hands. He vaults out the window in one swift motion, closing it behind him, breathing heavily.

His fists are clenched hard enough for his nails to bite into his skin. Talking to Lauren after what they’ve just done isn’t going to be easy, but it must be done.

She needs to know about her father.

She _must._

____

  
  


_“Lauren.”_ The voice comes to her distorted, almost as if someone is speaking her name underwater.

A sudden prick of pain makes her jolt awake, eyes snapping open. She’d been resting under the same tree for an hour, attempting to clear her mind while monitoring the younger cadets in training going through form exercises. Kieran looks at her owlishly, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking all-too large and out of place next to several children shorter than him. The look in his eyes is more serious than she’s ever seen him.

“You were nodding off,” he says quietly.

She stands quickly, brushing golden leaves off her trousers. “Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk,” he says grimly. Dread coats her stomach. If it’s about last night - well, technically - earlier today, she’s screwed over. She does not want to talk about what she felt _now._ And then he speaks again.

“It’s about your father--”

Lauren grabs his arm, pulling him out of the clearing and into one of the hallways of the compound, making sure to close the door behind them.

“Don’t tell me you actually broke into Sinclair Manor,” she says shakily, gripping his shoulders. “Kieran, what were you thinking?”

“Your family’s library just doesn’t contain information on your father. It contained information on the Snapdragon,” he says, handing her the letter. She looks down at the paper in his hands, snatching it from him and beginning to skim through. “I swear I didn’t touch anything else. I only went there to collect information you need to see.”

“...His mother warned him to not join,” Lauren finishes, gripping the letter tightly. “He must’ve been higher in their ranks than I thought.”

“I thought he was a new member of theirs?” Kieran asks, leaning against a marbled column.

“That was my initial theory,” she says, hissing as she rakes a hand through her messy bangs, her bun close to slipping out of its hold. “But Chantal said Sandman was barely loyal to the Scythe. My father must’ve convinced him to join. It’s the only thing that would make sense given how he was a higher-ranked member.”

“The date.” He taps the writing on the bottom of the letter. “Ten years since it was written. It’s only a couple of years before the Phantom Scythe emerged. Before the socialists got violent.”

“Before the monarchy sent out spies,” finishes Lauren, lips in a cold line. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“If the feeling is ‘this entire situation now involves three parties instead of one,’ I’m with you on that front.” Kieran looks to the side, an awkward silence quickly filling the space between them. He scratches the back of his neck, eyeing her.

“Lauren, about last night…”

“It wasn’t just your fault,” she blurts out. “We know the rules. You weren’t yourself,” she continues, excuses rising to the top of her mind, anything to quell the rapid swell of emotion she feels in her chest, a longing that is barely being contained. “You just needed a distraction, and I - provided to be one too well, I suppose.”

“You were,” he murmurs. “That was all it was. I wasn’t myself, as you said before. The fever proved to be a little too much for both of us.”

She holds her body tighter. “I guess so.”

Out of nowhere, his signature grin appears, fast as a rising dawn, and relief fills her bones. “Thankfully, this means I can spare you from my lecture on the dangers of love.”

“Like the actual heartbreaker between us would even give a decent lecture,” she retorts, and they both laugh, grateful for the return to normalcy.

____

Will doesn’t actually expect her to take paperwork seriously so early in the afternoon, but when he arrives, usually the first on scene to be there, she’s clad in sunlight, working vigorously on a set of files. The scene is more than odd. It’s positively unnerving.

He doesn’t mean to creep up on her, but he does anyway, peering over her shoulder. She isn’t doodling, but actually filling in the proper blanks on the forms that pile over the mahogany surface. At least half her undone pile is now done.

Has the world turned upside down?

“Kym?”

_“AAH!”_

In a manner of seconds, he’s been flipped over her shoulder, landing on the ground in a hard heap of limbs. She presses against him, a short figure managing to hold him down squarely. Her hair is tousled, as if she’s just woken up and fallen out of bed.

“Were you doing your paperwork or have I gone insane,” he wheezes.

“Oh.” She blinks down at him. “Oh, it’s you.” And then proceeds to clamber off of him, accidentally kicking him squarely in the chest as she does so.

“You haven’t gone insane,” she says, leaning against the table. “Yet.”

“Goodness gracious, I’m so thankful for that.” Will stands up reluctantly, easing out the crick in his back. “Also, you broke the lamp.”

She promptly swivels around to look where he’s pointing towards: a green lamp on its side, glass shards scattered like beams of sunlight in the morning sky. It takes approximately five seconds for her to understand what she’s done, and when she does, promptly groans, hands swinging at her side.

“You know where the janitor’s closet is.”

“Yes, mother, I do,” she says briskly, tugging him along with her. He follows, but only to make sure where she’s going - his fellow officer is terrible with directions; he’s discovered - and when they end up at the end of the hallway, he couldn’t be more grateful. Maybe a coffee or two after all of this mess will set things right. “I will be out of your hair in less than T-minus two--”

She doesn't complete her sentence.

Instead, a violent scream is torn from her mouth as the door to the janitor’s closet swings open of its own accord, a heavy body falling to the ground, sticky crimson everywhere. Kym’s body bumps into his, and out of reflex, he embraces her, shielding her face in his chest. She shakes like a leaf in his arms, suddenly no longer fierce and sturdy and arrogant, but instead fragile and terribly vulnerable.

Harvey Wood’s dead body stares right up at him.

Someone has killed an innocent.

Someone is targeting their precinct.

As Will’s mind goes numb with shock, he barely registers Kym shoving him away, running out of his grasp.

“Kym!” He yells louder. _“Ladell!”_

“I’m fine, Hawkes,” she mutters, shivering. “I just - I need - _don’t bother looking for me,_ I have paperwork to do--”

Liar.

She’s always been a terrible liar.

And so is he, and so he lies to himself that he is only going out after her because of duty. The hallways and foyer of the APD building disappear after he bursts through glass doors, searching the snow-covered streets for a flash of dark sapphire, or hazel eyes. Will runs down the street, panting, registering nothing around him but white noise.

He grits his teeth, pounding a fist against his knee. She can’t have gone far. She can’t have--

He knows where she’s gone.

It’s a longshot, but there’s nothing else to try at the moment. He runs toward the outskirts of the 11th, towards Schott’s, noting the streets he goes down as he hurtles towards his destination.

When he finally comes to a stop, gasping for breath, she’s standing there, outside the shop, touching the same music box he’d hyper-fixated on so long ago. When he screams her name, she acts like she can’t even hear him, and when she does, it’s as if she’s managed to draw breath after being drowned by a tidal wave.

“I didn’t hear you,” Kym admits, stepping back from the box playing _Left My Heart In The Old Ardhalis Blue._

“You ran,” he pants. “It scared me for a while there.”

She grins, slow and methodical. “Now, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually worried about me.”

“And if I was?” he retorts. “You acted like a normal person for once. It _did_ worry me.”

For once, she looks as if she’s at a loss for words. Kym walks forward, taking the coat out of his hands, shrugging it on. “Thanks for bringing these.”

“No worries.” He looks down, unsure of what to say next. “Kym--”

“Look.” She holds up a hand. “You don’t have to fulfill a duty or whatever you think you have to do. I know you hate me.”

“I never hated you,” he admits, frowning. At that, something softer than snow settles over her face, brightening the pallor in her cheeks. “For what it’s worth...I just thought you wanted to get on my nerves. I thought you disliked me more.”

“Well, I have my wiles,” she says, wrinkling her nose, suspiciously avoiding eye contact with him. “For now, though - I, uh, wouldn’t object to a truce.”

“Fair.” He holds out his hand.

For once, she takes it.

“Fair, William Hawkes,” Kym repeats, and the ghost of a smile crosses her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brand is Almost Kissing. That is all.


	15. sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t try. Do it.” She stubbornly holds onto his hand. “And come back to me.”
> 
> He blinks, and then smiles sweetly, fondly raising her hand to his lips. And when he leaves his last gift behind - a kiss, a grin faded in sunset - she thinks she might die of either happiness or a crushing sadness.

The turmoil on King Philip’s face is evident. Lauren has been trained to spot the tiniest amounts of conflict on even the most tightly-controlled facades various persons may carry, and right now, she sees a living storm beneath her king’s visage: a storm torn between justice and mercy.

And right now, the people of Ardhalis are shouting for justice, no matter how cruel it may seem. The current crowd gathered beneath the castle watching him stride out alongside the queen and their son show as much; a collection of gray and brown and dappled faces laced with terror and anguish. Anguish that had been thrown into the ink-stained lines of this morning’s newspaper: the Phantom Scythe had killed a local police officer within the 11th district, something that had never happened before, even in the darkest corners of this city. The people’s protection, now cast open in the vulnerable spotlight for all to see, the underbelly of a long-slumbering beast. She watches silently as he holds up a hand to silence the murmuring crowd, lifting up her red scarf to her chin. The felt hat she wears covers enough of her hair, spun into an elaborate chignon, the entire beige ensemble enough to ward away the worsening winter.

_“Late last night, one of this city’s protectors was slaughtered in cold blood. This is a somber time for all of us, and understand that I know your suffering keenly. Never before have these terrorists and killers made a more brash move that has stolen an innocent from us--”_

_Oh please._ She resists the urge to snort. Wood had been one of their own. And the autopsy had shown as much - poison had been at the forefront of his death.

The problem was his killer had come on orders from Seven. She’d heard as much from Ten, who had called her and Kieran yesterday, under suspicions that the order of Apostles was falling apart. And their word had been final: their two most vicious attack dogs would take down Seven tonight, before the Scythe could be better compromised.

If taking down Seven means taking down his pawns later on, Lauren knows she’s going to meet Belladonna in battle soon enough. Perhaps even as Wood’s killer as well - she only knows one assassin who uses poison as her select weapon of choice. Four down to three, and three down to two. Dunya and the other children will carry on their legacy.

The cruel cycle of life continues on, she supposes. She resists against the small tug of discomfort in her chest.

_“The bounty on Lune’s head will be increased twice fold, and the APD will be given central funding--”_

Lauren turns around, intent on telling Kieran what she now knows: that they will have to be even more careful with their mission tonight, and two, the entire city is now out for them alongside the organization they call home.

But when has it never been out for their heads? 

And besides, they’ve always made it out alive.

____

  
  


He walks next to her, silently, footsteps soundless on the fresh snowfall. Kym clenches the watch tighter in her pocket as Will’s breaths take the form of miniature fog clouds, her companion removing his hat only momentarily to adjust his slicked-back hair. At present, neither of them knows what to say - about Harvey’s death, nor their supposed truce they made on a whim.

Does this mean Will is something akin to - a friend, perhaps? No, definitely not. She’s never gotten along with him whatsoever. What does she do with him now? The blonde, always, has been sand slipping through her cupped hands, shifting, ethereal, always so close to leaving. When he stays is even more fragile and peculiar to her than anything she’s ever known.

“Kym.”

She swivels her head to the side. _“Williame.”_ The nickname comes out on impulse, and she bites her lip after she’s said it. No way in hell she’s calling him by his ordinary name. 

Luckily for her, he only smiles a bit at the name, but his grin fades as soon as it appears. “Are you sure you’re alright? You were...you weren’t yourself during the funeral. None of us, were, really. Harvey meant something to all of us. But I could tell. You kept looking at that watch.”

A silent question. “Let’s just say that death is a poignant reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Humanity,” she says, looking skywards, trying her best not to feel the events of seven years ago. Seven years her failure, seven years her past, locking her in chains. “None of us are superheroes, and we die just as easily as flowers in the winter, too.”

“So you do,” he murmurs.

“Do what?” she demands, cocking a brow, but he just shakes his head, shrugging slightly. After a while, though, Will speaks again, and she recognizes - with exasperation - his tone of voice. That commanding officer voice.

“There are therapists in our district,” he begins, not paying attention to her increasingly volatile temper. “I stopped seeing mine a while ago, and if you need a referral--”

“Look, I’m fine,” she says, waving a hand. “Seriously, okay? Enough with your mothering.”

“I’m not mothering!” he objects, probably close to popping a vein in his forehead. “Ugh, look. Just - this is a shock for all of us. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You don’t give me orders, and who takes care of you?!” she shoots back, and flinches from the way he suddenly looks away, withdrawn at the mention of the last five words she’d spoken. Silence stretches between them, Kym cursing herself in her head as they make their way to the front of the cemetery in straight lines along with the other officers. _Shouldn’t have touched on him, shouldn’t have implied things about him, stupid, stupid--!_

“Kym.”

_“Will.”_

“I want to check the autopsy for Harvey.”

“Great, honey, just-- _what?!”_ She whirls around to face him, astonished. “We already know how he was killed. We’re this close to finding out who. Why would you want to do that?”

“Someone’s targeting our precinct. I want them brought to justice, Kym. And I have a feeling,” he says darkly, “it’s the Phantom Scythe. They’ll hide the second we come after them in drones.”

“It’s not our fault those rats hide every time high tide comes in,” she says, scoffing. “Are you actually considering going behind Hermann’s back?”

“As much as I don’t want to go against the rules,” he says, “I need to know who did this. Someone’s out for all of us.”

She rubs at the ache in her temples. “Of course you do. But you’re missing something.”

“That being?”

“Me,” she says, gesturing to herself, grinning widely. “You really didn’t think I’d let you hog the investigation all to yourself? _Please._ And no--” Kym holds up a hand to his mouth, “--you don’t get to refuse.”

“Sometimes I regret our truce,” he mumbles through her skin.

____

The Lonely Traveler’s Inn is on the outskirts of the 10th precinct, and is nearly packed to the brim in the relatively small bar and dining area, with waiters bustling around the wooden floors, passing around cocktails and cleaning up spilled messes. A gloved hand reaches for the announcement bell, ringing it once, twice, three times, and Lauren reaches over the counter, adjusting the white gloves on her fingers.

“Table Six!” clamors her voice, clear as the bell. “Extra cognac in the sidecar cocktails!”

A silver tray lands in her hands, and Lauren kicks open the kitchen door with her polished heel. When she walks out, her fellow brethren are around the bars and booths, dressed in her own black-and-white suit. The bowtie at her own collar is rather tight, but the hair spilling around her shoulder conceals enough of her discomfort. 

The table she serves smells of cigar smoke, but she dishes out the drinks anyway, taking care to not spill any liquid. Lauren keeps one eye behind her, scanning the area for a familiar face, alongside her target in the background. Apostle Seven and two other Apostles occupy a table in the back, half-masked and in civilian clothing. Belladonna and Flemmings sit at a table across from them, the woman swirling a champagne glass, diamonds swinging in the light. 

When she stands up, Kieran passes behind her on cue, and she sneaks the paper she’d been holding into his own gloved hand. 

_Table Ten. Spike the whiskey glass with the sleeping draught in your pocket._

And just like that, they part, two working waiters who have no knowledge of each other.

____

Flemmings leaves halfway through their discussion, around the same time some of the Apostles leave to talk shop. Which is why Kieran rounds Belladonna’s table after serving Apostle Seven’s, taking delight in the awe plain on her face.

And then vicious, vicious anger.

“I know you’ve never liked me, Davenport,” he says, refilling her champagne, “so hopefully the bubbly doesn’t loosen your tongue that much.”

“You can read bodily cues so well, White,” she practically croons, venom lacing every word she speaks. Her eyes rake his body up and down, coldly, searching. He’d gotten eye color contacts to complete his disguise, honeyed brown taking the place of ocean blue, wavy hazel over messy black locks. “I am to be the pawn in your little game tonight?”

“You won’t be involved, fear not. But do think of your alignments twice the next time you pledge loyalty to anyone.”

Her hand snakes around his wrist.

“Dear, don’t we have time?” She smiles languidly. “I have been missing your presence so.”

When Belladonna pulls him closer, his jaw clenches as her lips brush his ear, the tone of her voice worse than if she were shouting out loud. “I know what you’re here for, _Hyacinth._ You usurp Seven, the shipments all go down in the water. The blame parcels out to me, then my partner, then us all. Don’t develop a death wish.”

Kieran is not above aiming for the low blow. That’s how he was taught after all - fight dirty, play dirty, act the dirtiest of all, as their attack dog, their _monster._

So he speaks despite the ringing in his ears. “I always knew you were jealous of my bloody hands, but really, do quell your temper, viper.”

Her hand nearly cracks the glass with how tightly she holds it. “You always felt too much. I thought they had that weakness whipped out? Or are you that stubborn?”

The scars on his back sing. His hand digs harder into the tablecloth. “I admit your coldness is admirable. I wouldn’t have objected to them making you the Purple Hyacinth.”

“And yet here we are.” Her eyes bore into his own. “Me, the pawn. You, the king.” Belladonna tips her glass forward, and Kieran instinctively tenses up as her eyes land on Lauren, walking around with a tray in her hands, scarlet hair a beacon in the crowd. “She, the queen.” His companion smiles with all her teeth. 

“If I do recall correctly, a pawn can become either. And a queen was always stronger than a king.”

Now it’s Kieran’s turn to return her smile, sharpened at the edges, a wolf’s snarl. “You touch a hair on her head and I--”

“Yes, yes, don’t worry about your partner getting hurt at all.” Belladonna raps the side of her glass. “I believe you have duties to return to?”

Kieran doesn’t answer as he tears himself from the table before Flemmings and the others return, her words swimming in his head as potent as any snake’s poison, twisting and warping reality. When he returns to the kitchen, he startles when Lauren finds him there, setting down her empty tray and striding over to him, dusting off his suit jacket. Concern is palpable in her golden eyes.

“It’s done.”

“I’m well aware of that, subordinate,” she says, crossing her arms, gaze darting around nervously before landing on him.

_“Subordinate?”_

“It suits you, doesn’t it?” Lauren chuckles softly, but moves closer when he doesn’t respond the usual way. She smells like citrus - oranges and jasmine blossoms altogether. “Hey. _Kier._ What happened out there?!”

“I--” His mouth goes dry. He shakes his head. “Something’s wrong.”

Her brows furrow. “What do you mean, something’s wr--”

Before she can finish her sentence, the smell of smoke fills the kitchen, along with a loud set of screams.

____

  
  


Will’s intuition turns out to be very, very correct. A quick drop into the autopsy lab when few members of the investigative unit turns up results: Harvey’s death had been the result of golden viper venom, a toxin only one member of the Phantom Scythe was known to use from snippets of morning papers and the fearful whispers in the shadows. 

“They’re closing in on us,” Kym says, making a small noise of impatience as she closes the newspaper in her hands. “How many more will they target? How many spies have they planted in our ranks, if they were able to get so close?”

“For all we know,” he says somberly, “Harvey could’ve been one of theirs.”

“And if he was, that makes it all the worse.” Kym exhales in frustration. “We’d only need confirmation. But the official results are only disclosed to…”

Will squints. “No.”

She grins. “I mean, we have been gearing for a promotion for a while now…”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “When it’s time, it’s time. For _now, Kym,_ we’ll work with what we have.”

“If you insist,” she says, waving a hand. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t possibly hold them off if they infiltrate our ranks. We have to do something.”

“Lune’s still active,” he reminds her. “They’re the foremost problem.”

“And that’s it, isn’t it!” Kym slams her hands down on her desk, the equivalent of a lightbulb going off in her head. “If we took down their strongest pieces in this battle, it would lead to a domino effect of sorts. Collect just enough evidence to arrest them, maybe even find the Leader--”

“No one’s seen the Leader in years,” Will says. But he doesn’t look as reluctant as before. “We would have to be careful about this.”

“William Hawkes, agreeing to one of my suggestions?” Kym wipes an imaginary tear from her eye. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t. The exalted day has come.”

“I mean it!”

“And I mean it.” She places her hands on her hips. “It isn’t as if we would get jailed - the death penalty’s been abolished for years, anyhow. But we’re on the good side of the law. We could _do this._ The only question left is this: are you willing to work with me?”

Before any of them can speak, Lukas Randall swings the door open.

“Hermann’s calling for both of you two,” he drones. “Congratulations.”

Kym turns to her partner, insufferably arrogant in every motion as she grins up at him.

“What was that I said about a promotion, again?”

____

Everything is on fire, from the windows, to the walls. And Apostle Seven has vanished in the middle of it all. The kitchen staff have started to evacuate the guests, but that is currently undergoing a very bumpy process, considering how - well.

How Apostle Ten and Three are currently in the middle of a shootout that has now turned into an all-out brawl within the inn. Lauren currently ducks behind a swinging door, groping at her belt for knives. For only a moment, the scene clears, Belladonna on the offensive with her blade - and Lauren is able to gun for a full attack, bursting out of the kitchens with a knife in each hand. 

Her run is then cut off by a miniature explosive being detonated right before her eyes.

The world goes black. 

Lauren is thrown to the side as glass and cloth go tumbling in free-fall, colliding with the bartop counter. Ash stains her pale skin, and she struggles to levy herself up on her elbows, willing her legs to move, but they feel like water beneath her waist. She can’t hear. They’re gone--

_\--She missed--_

Someone is calling her name. No, not quite. Someone is calling for her, as pink hair vanishes before her eyes.

_“Eclarlate!”_ Then louder: _“Mon reine!”_

_Scarlet. My queen._

She wants that annoying voice to call her nickname forever. 

Kieran runs up to her, out of disguise, hauling her up into his arms. “They can’t be far. Can you walk?”

“Give me a minute,” she croaks out, coughing. “I can. We need to catch them - they’re going to escape - where’s Seven?”

“Escaped.” His mouth is a hard, grim line. “I’m afraid someone might’ve tipped him off. I made sure Belladonna couldn’t, and neither would Flemmings, but it looks as if he’s covered his tracks.”

“We have to go--” She breaks off, coughing. “Now.”

“Almost there,” he grunts, and he ignores her yelp of protest when he picks her up in his arms, carrying her out of the building bridal-style. She winds her arms around his neck, holding on tight, and when they come outside the inn, dread greets both of their stomachs.

The forest is on fire. 

Someone has closed any chances of Seven being found.

“He knew.” Lauren goes slack in his arms, all the fight torn out of her.

Kieran looks more serious than she’s ever seen him. “This means civil war.”

____

  
  


It turns out Hermann does see him as a rather good lieutenant after all, since Gracefell’s retirement, and Kym as his accompanying sergeant. 

Apparently, so does Tristan Sinclair.

“I knew Stefan back in the day,” recounts the older man, patting Will’s shoulder. “He will know of the news tonight - undoubtedly a happy surprise for your family.” Behind his spectacles, his eyes soften. “If it doesn’t make you uncomfortable...may I inquire as to how Josephine is doing?”

He smiles as best as he can. This is supposed to be a happy day. A happy one. “Her condition is fragile. But the doctor has been testing out new treatments. We’re hopeful. It’s all we can be.”

Tristan nods, adjusting the fur of his coat. “I understand. You’re a brave man, Will.”

“I try to be.”

“No, you are,” he corrects, raising a brow. “But if anything, I hope you have people at your side who will help you shoulder your burdens. I, too, understand grief.”

And suddenly, Will understands. He holds together his cap and badge - the two stripes on his formal uniform standing out against navy blue. “It’s been seven years. Do...do you still remember her?”

“We never forget the ones we love,” Tristan says somberly, his mouth curving sadly. “But yes. As well as you do, I am sure. She was your friend, too.”

“She was. I just - we never thought--”

“But justice will be served,” Tristan says, cutting him off. And with that, he steps back, greeting Hermann and an accompanying Kym as she steps next to Will, outside the captain’s door. “Ladell. Hawkes. I look forward to overseeing you both.”

“Sir,” they chorus as he leaves, alongside Hermann, giving them one last congratulatory bow. And just like that, they’re alone.

Kym stretches, yawning. Her formerly neat hair has come undone, and dark sapphire crests over her brow. “Well, well, well. Eventful, wasn’t it? Lukas looking like he wanted to die, Hermann looking like he wanted to die next to Tristan, who came along for some reason, but hey, that’s the Chief for ya--”

“Stop talking,” Will says, holding up a hand. Before she can speak, he cuts her off. “I want in.”

She blinks, twice. “You--”

“Yes,” he hisses, looking around the hallway, only to find no one. He turns back to her. “I want in. I will work with you. If you’re serious about this,” he mutters.

Kym’s mouth hangs open slightly, but she shuts it, at a loss for words. For once. “Hold on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Where are you even going?”

“You’ll see!” she shouts, closing the door to the main office behind her. What comes next is the most awkward, silent seventy-two seconds of Will’s life. She comes back in a rush, something gold glittering in one hand. He realizes as she opens her palm that it is a spool of sunshine-yellow thread: one that had been left astray from the bouquets shipped in at the beginning of last year’s spring. 

“Don’t move.” Before he can, she wraps one end around his wrist, tying it to her own, snapping the thread with her own hands. They’re bound together now, literally, in a string of fate.

“We’re tied together,” she says, smirking up at him darkly. “Now that we’re in this operation - after the Phantom Scythe, after the Leader, after Lune. I think a deal requires a bit of seriousness, don’t you?”

“For you, that’s a first.” He looks down. “I want to trust you, Kym. I know we called truce, but we’re not comfortable with each other. And I don’t expect us to be. But wherever you go - I go.”

“And whatever you know, I know.” She leans closer to him, and he swears he can smell her perfume. “Do we have a deal?”

He shakes her open hand.

“Deal.”

Her mouth curves into a wickedly bright smile.

“Welcome to Soleil, _partner.”_

____

  
  


They recieve one order and one order alone: to head straight for Greychapel Cathedral, in Greychapel itself. 

And to pay no heed to the fact that the Apostles have begun their own process of taking power: from what Kieran has gathered from Two’s assistant back at the Lonely Traveler’s - Ten has taken over Seven’s operations, half of the original Apostles gone or in hiding due to their alignment with Seven. The world cannot know the rebellion is close to being six feet under. The rebellion itself needs time to recover, to lick its wounds, to heal. It’s why Lauren has had pains in her body ever since she stepped into Greychapel territory - pain in her stomach, namely, that won’t go away. Something bad is going to happen to them, or to everyone else they hold dear. 

And they do not hold many dear.

“Stay with me,” Kieran rasps under his breath, as they limp inside the church. “Almost there.”

“I’m not some wounded maiden, you can let go of me,” she mutters, but almost stumbles on a crack in the marbled floor. Katoptris swings from her side, having been stashed in the woods, still smelling like fire and ash. “The confession booth? Is this some sort of joke?”

“It’s where the Messenger wants us to meet him,” he says, shrugging as they move forward. The entire place is abandoned, with lichens and moss crawling over the dusty benches, the steeple, the frosted glass panes high above. Rain trickles in, heady and sweet from a broken window on the side. “We’re to go in on the other side. There - the cracked open door.”

“Can’t wait.” Lauren’s temper is close to bursting as she momentarily slips under his arm, their hands intertwined tightly as they lock themselves in the booth.

_Breathe. Breathe._

Kieran squeezes her hand.

“Wherever you go, I go.” She exhales as he whispers in her ear.

“Wherever you go, I go,” Lauren repeats, just as Messenger IV swings open the confession booth window.

_“Sinclair. White. The Phantom Scythe is in disarray.”_

“We’re aware,” Kieran says, voice growing cold as he slowly untangles his hand from hers. She tries not to crave his warmth. “What are our next assignments? Seven escaped, and it wasn’t our fault. He had the entire organization fooled. He had allies on his side.”

_“Hold your tongue, White,”_ the masked man hisses, and Lauren flinches. Kieran’s eyes darken. _“Be grateful that you two are not being punished as you speak. Sinclair. The police will catch wind of this. Your uncle will in time.”_

“Am I being recruited?”

_“The opposite.”_ And somehow, she can _feel_ the Messenger’s gaze on them. Waiting.

_“We have been watching. Even when you did not think we were. Ever since you two have come of age. At first, we deemed it an outlier. You were his mere accomplice, a tag-along. Something akin to that of a sister. That quickly became not the case. You demanded a position equal. You two became a team. And that is the only reason you two sit here unscathed today, not because of mercy, but out of necessity. We have been waiting,”_ he continues. _“The cafe. The dance hall. The garden. Did you really think you owned this world, this legacy?”_

_You are at no one’s mercy,_ Lauren repeats over and over, but the more she thinks it, the more it sounds like a lie. She can’t panic. Not here. She will not run like a frightened deer. _You bow to no one, you cave to no one--_

_“The rules exist to not have our assassins and our workers compromised. Our warriors and spies intact. It would be a shame to have the two most talented of this generation do so.”_

“Nothing lies between us.” Kieran speaks loudly. “Nothing.”

She doesn’t object.

_“I should hope not.”_ Inhale, exhale. _“Civil war has weakened us all. We must all retreat. Not surrender. We will not surrender until justice is done. And you two are not the exception.”_

Her nails bite into the skin of her palm.

_“I am a harbinger of mercy. For now. The Purple Hyacinth and the Scarlet Queen - the question lies in your eyes: what will become of you? And I grant an answer. You are no different than any of our other assassins.”_ And with that, the Messenger looks straight at them.

_“Banishment. Sinclair will take the 11th, her homeground. And White will take the 3rd. Do not return to each other - or the Phantom Scythe - until XX27.”_

____

“They’re separating us.”

Kieran hunches over, hands in his pockets. Dawn rises to greet them, still and light, pouring a wash of rose and red over them. In this moment, they are still connected, still here, still touching. Lauren places a hand on the small of his back, shaking. “I don’t - they shouldn’t - we’re retreating? Like a bunch of animals? The _nerve--”_

“It’s strategic.” He’s talking in that tone of voice as he straightens back up, as they stand on the bridge where they’d once met. Once, bound. “Disappear into the shadows. Make it seem like you’re going to be gone. They - the police - will be soothed into a false pretense of security. And then three years later, pop up, and annihilate them all.”

It makes sense. She hates that it does. “And he said we’re not different from the others. Is Bella retreating too? Her partner?” Panic swells in her. “Dunya and the others - the troupe, Apollo, Eurydice, everyone--”

“Lauren. _Lauren.”_ He grips her shoulders. “They are going to be fine. Worry about yourself.”

_“How can I do that when I’m supposed to be in exile for three years?!”_ she shouts. Seagulls cry high above, flying towards the sea. “To act as a normal civilian? While a war rages on? And you? What about _you?”_

**“I’ll be fine.”**

“I told you not to lie to me,” she hisses, and he catches her fist mid-air, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. She resists only briefly, and then grips onto him like she’ll float away, burying herself in his scent, his presence. 

He will not be here after today. The Messenger had made that clear. He cannot be - as the plan foretells, as they need to decrease suspicions.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, stroking her hair. “Darling, it’s not like I’ll be gone forever. We’ll be assigned jobs, facades, the paperwork will be taken care of, and you’ll know I’m--”

“Okay?” she asks, pulling away. Lauren shakes her head grimly. “Surviving.”

Her hands don’t leave his, tracing his pulse. Seven years of history, wrenched apart. “This doesn’t change anything. I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. I just - I don’t want you in danger.”

“Neither do I you,” she retorts, lightly smacking his temple. “Telephone lines could be tapped, but we could, you know, write to each other.” The sun casts brilliant gold over them as it rises higher, higher, their shadows growing deeper into the ground, leaving permanent legacies of two people born from the darkness made light. “Lemon juice and fire. Secret ink and burnt as soon as it’s read.”

“If anyone can collect information, I suppose, and not be caught, it’s me,” he says, a familiar smirk playing over his features. “Very well. We can try. I’ll write to you.”

“Don’t try. Do it.” She stubbornly holds onto his hand. “And come back to me.”

He blinks, and then smiles sweetly, fondly raising her hand to his lips. And when he leaves his last gift behind - a kiss, a grin faded in sunset - she thinks she might die of either happiness or a crushing sadness. 

“I will.”

And they part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gold band Kym and Will both share is based off the red string of fate: said string can bend or tighten, but will never break.
> 
> (References stop here.)
> 
> If you feel like you've been sucker punched in the gut, don't worry. The real pain comes later.
> 
> Seriously, though: this is the last chapter where we see Season 1 material for the most part, as well as nineteen-year-old Lauren and twenty-one year old Kieran, because - you guessed it - for the _last time ever,_ we will be skipping ahead three years in the next chapter, and sticking there for the rest of the fic in the 'canon' timeline. It all feels a bit bittersweet, I won't lie. I've watched Lauren grow up for ten years of her life, and a part of me isn't ready to say farewell, even though we're hardly done with her growth as a character, or her presence - much less the others. So long, our queen. We will see you on the other side, waiting.
> 
> And, to make things a little angstier: if you look at the official map of Ardhalis, the 11th and 3rd districts are _directly_ across from each other, separated only by a _river._ Ah, so close, yet so far.
> 
> Parting is such sweet sorrow - but hopefully not three years long. I'll see you all very, very soon, loves ;)


	16. rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line disconnects, and Lauren angrily winds the cord around her hand, placing it and the phone back onto its hold near the balcony. A quick blur of motion catches her eye, and her hand goes to her waist reflexively - but no dagger nor sword rests there. Katoptris is hidden below the floorboards, and the adrenaline in her veins quells for only a moment as she discovers a bird landing on the railing, twittering.
> 
> It has, however, distracted her from the actual figure darting from rooftop to rooftop, with one hand in anticipation and the other in a feeling he can’t quite place.

Kieran White has a routine.

It usually involves waking up at the crack of dawn, mustering all the strength he has in his sleep-filled body (a luxury he was not afforded when he was active three years prior). After a shower and routine self-care maintenance, he will proceed to keep his wits about him while going through training exercises, sometimes excluding his katana - the makeshift workout room he’s set up is rather small - and then prepare his morning coffee, always black, sometimes with a bit of sugar on the worst days alongside breakfast. Sometimes he spares a bit more syrup on his pancakes; but he does take care to keep his sweet tooth in check.

He will then gather his art supplies and head down to the art studio in the 3rd district, the first one around in the early mornings, usually. His mind is sharper in the dawn hours - most of the art he produces is borne of this time. Exhibit halls are littered with it, really. Under the vague pseudonym of  _ White.  _ Most of them are composites, in black and white. Charcoal sketches or outlined paintings in chiaroscuro imitation. Rarely is there a splash of color to be found.

The color is for his private work. Splashes of emerald green on forest leaves, curling upwards in the air. The light turning a woman’s black hair tawny gold. Snow like crystalline showers on backdrops of evening blue. Experiments half-finished, but they still leave him searching, sometimes when he’s left hunched on his stool, twirling the end of a brush and coated in acrylics in place of crimson. 

There are a couple of portraits on his wall, however. A rough coloring of a garden. Foxes frockling in a field. The woman who he has not seen in three years, golden eyes still pondering the meaning of life.

Sometimes he thinks it berates him, silently.

But the kids come trickling in soon, and as always, he assists them with their endeavors. They like him, for some reason or another. Some of them are regulars, asking for guidance on their own paintings or sketches. One of them has always been particularly chatty, and today is no different.

“I think it’s missing something,” muses Anna. Yellow stains the side of her olive skin like a sunset. She’s rather tall for a thirteen year old. “I can’t tell what it is.”

“Have you considered the palette? Certain colors match up better with others.” Kieran squints at the oil painting of a mountaintop side. “I would think—”

_ “Kieran!”  _ The receptionist of the studio waves him up. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Did they say what for?”

She shrugs. “They're waiting outside.”

He wouldn’t normally have visitors - at all, really, given his state of being. Armed with the knowledge something peculiar is going on, Kieran thanks her, stepping outside only momentarily. Brick wall lines the alleyway in-between the studio and another building, and that’s where he finds a woman in all black, clutching a bouquet close to her chest. He watches silently as she smiles at him.

“Greetings, Hyacinth. It’s been a while.”

He recognizes that voice.

“Hello, Apostle Three.”

____

  
  


“We’ve gotten a call from Kingsbury!” Will shouts, the telephone held tightly in his hands. “I need a team of five. Ladell, you’re with me.”

“Always am,” quips the sergeant, shrugging her coat on. The office has already possessed a frantic and hectic energy by morning, but ever since the calls have begun to come in, they’ve been scurrying around like mice. Several officers under his and Kym’s command have grown impatient and pace around the floors. Lukas has fallen silent over his third cup of coffee. Lila has been nervously anticipating any tips that might come in and has abandoned her own work. Tips that might clue them into the sudden scares around the city - whispers of a lone assassin striking once again after three years worth of peace. At first they dismissed it as nonsense, or a random criminal. But Kingsbury all but confirms Will’s dread. The modus operandi; the flowers, the height and build.

The Purple Hyacinth has struck again.

“Do you think something else has something to do with this?” Kym falls into stride alongside him as they walk out of the precinct building, the sounds of boots on cobblestones growing louder. “Despite everything, the Purple Hyacinth’s not a rogue assassin. He couldn’t act alone; someone would have to give him orders.”

“Most likely.” Will eyes her from the side - on impulse, his gaze flickers down to her wrist and his. It’s as if three years has hardly passed. The ribbon is still tight around his skin. “Admittedly, I thought we were making progress.”

“Ahh,  _ Williame.  _ Don’t talk about our shadowy business in front of the kids.” She pars him on the back as they round a corner, the sounds of cars following whining in the air. “But yes, I thought we were. For just a while.”

And it was true. For a while, Soleil had been Ardhalis’s guardian angel in times of need. They had managed to turn in a couple of rogue Scythe members despite Kym’s complete lack of directional sense when chasing down criminals and Will’s tendency to want to chart out every ambush plan much to his partner’s chagrin, who argued simple plans made better ones, but they’d made a good team. An albeit imperfect one, but still, a good team. 

Now, their progress looks as if it’ll be damaged from the ground-up.

“We do what we must,” Kym says, tugging down her mask. “Honestly, if we have to start over just because of him...I’d rather have him than Lune. Or a bigger operation.”

“He’s just one man,” Will agrees. “It could be worse.”

“Which makes me think.” She snaps her fingers. “Why now? It could’ve been five years down the line. More if these assassins wanted us to really think they were gone. But it’s happening now. Something must’ve changed in the system.”

“For better or for worse,” he muses grimly. The crime scene is before their eyes now, and as the investigative unit begins setting boundaries around the scene, Will takes inventory of his surroundings quick as a flash: his unit beside him, the scene in front of him, vantage points from roofs or alleyway. “Randall, take a team of three down the left alley; the rest of you down the right. Ladell--”

“I’m with you,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Careful where you’re stepping. Last time the Hyacinth struck, you tripped on your own two feet and I had to nurse you back to health after the incident. Remember?” Kym grins wolfishly up at him as she points down to a deep crack in the cobblestones. Will’s foot is perched right above it.

“If you call ‘nursing me back to health’ ‘cups of tea that gave me the  _ runs for a week.’” _

“Well, you got better, didn’t you?” she quips.

“And you wound the bandages too tight.”

“You’re not dead. I’d call that an accomplishment, frankly!” She almost breaks his bones patting him on the back. “In front of you, honey.” Kym rotates his head 180 degrees to make him come face-to-face with Detective Cooper. 

“Ah, Detective.” Will watches as Cooper bows lightly, carefully cradling a pocketed hyacinth in his hands.

“Lieutenant Hawkes. I’m sure word has gotten around on the police scanners by now.”

“It’s why we got here so fast in the first place.” He frowns. “To be quite honest with you, we don’t think this was a solo run on account of the Purple Hyacinth. He’s never been known to go rogue. My team is still analyzing the scene, but from what we can gather--”

“They’re back,” Kym and Will say in tandem, grimly looking at each other.

“So they are,” Kym says, looking more aggrieved than he’s ever seen her. “The Phantom Scythe is back at large.”

____

  
  


_ October 14th, XX25 _

_ Yesterday was your birthday. I’d be lying if I wasn’t wondering what you were doing then, all alone - but then again, whatever you were doing can’t have been worse than attempting to use your apartment’s oven in an effort to actually bake something for the weekend and then having it explode all over your face. No, I’m still not done scrubbing the flour off the walls as I write this. _

_ In regards to your last letter, I have indeed been doing well. Not minding the people in the studio who don’t put the caps back on the oil paints, the younger ones are more of a delight to teach. Since I’m a regular there, a lot of them ask for my assistance. Ask for it, as if I were a teacher!  _

_ I promised not to lie to you, and I won’t start now - sometimes, I wonder what we could’ve been, if we hadn’t met the way we had. If you hadn’t been taken. But I will confess that I, too, have started thinking about my past. I don’t remember much now, but I remember a garden. Just that - a garden - and the outlines of who I think were my parents. The thing about becoming the mask is that when I happen to no longer be a slave to it, the memories pop back up again. The studio, ironically, has been better for me than any punishment the Phantom Scythe could’ve inflicted on me. I wonder if this was their true sentencing for me - giving me a sense of normalcy, the ability to be a normal human, before snatching it away. It’s coming one way or another in two years. But until then, I do what I do. I can’t tell you everything. But I will tell you this: it’s lonely here. _

_ I can hardly believe it’s been a year. Away from everything we’ve known. Away from you.  _

_ Write soon, darling. Don’t forget to get your favorite bakery’s blueberry scones. They’re not as good as mine, but they’ll suffice. _

_ (P.S: The 3rd district is nowhere compared to the gaudy 11th, but do tell if the rats in the streets have gotten particularly worse this time around. Kind of symbolic. In a bad way.) _

____

  
  


“And I keep telling you for the last  _ time,  _ Moray, we won’t be able to file a suit against some rogue attacker. I’ll send an attorney over this week and see what we can do.” The office is silent for only a minute before a seemingly never ending chorus of phone calls starts up again. Aquilae & Co’s more experienced staff drive away the noise with earplugs and the mindless scribbling of black ink pens; the newer interns rush to quell the thunder, carting trays of coffee and stacks of documents. To be fair, the small legal firm has perks if one so chooses to work there. It isn’t all smoke and silence like some of the more corporate ones are, clad in shades of warm brown and honey amber, the entire two-story building more like a homely library than anything. The rain can be heard better from the skyroof here. The lemon drops on the assistant receptionist’s desk are just the right amount of sour.

_ “Abbott!” _

Lauren startles in her chair, swiveling around in her desk. It takes too long for her to quell the urge to groan her dismay, because the second time he calls her fake name, she’s barely halfway towards the door of his open office. His suspenders are rumpled; the graying roots of his hair are getting to be more and more every day.

“Amelia, call in Secretary Abbott - ah,  _ Rachel,  _ there you are.” Clark Evans, a high-ranking partner with no former relation to a certain Mr. Evans, motions for her to come closer, mouthing the silent command as he turns to shout at someone over the phone. “Without such evidence, there is no way we can confirm he was a co-conspirator in any crime, and furthermore, there’s no such need to argue a frivolous defense when--”

The only thing harder to do than to act normal with people calling her mother’s name is filing the paperwork for numerous higher ups at Aquilae & Co. It’s not that the work is degrading - well, in a sense it is; she used to stoke fear in the hearts of people and now she works a regular job veiling as a timid little obedient mouse - it’s just that it’s chock full of  _ nonsense.  _ The city’s crime rate has cut in half since XX24, and the firm keeps chasing minor cases despite the police tackling most of it. 

_ Compos mentis,  _ Lauren thinks to herself, breathing in sharply as Evans hangs up the phone.  _ Command of mind. _

“Excellent, Rachel, you’re here. Be a darling and shelve these? Also, my client--”

“Needs these signed and stamped by tomorrow,” she replies, all-too sweetly. Lauren tips up the rim of her half-moon glasses to complete the effect: to anyone else, she’d be a relatively unassuming woman in a dark brown pencil skirt and ruffled ivory blouse, the usual uniform of choice for her, with her tell-tale auburn hair up in a high chignon. “Correct?”

“The world would be a darker place without you, Rachel.” The smile he grants her is genuine, but also not quite, and so she quells her temper and lets it go.

**“You flatter me.”** She smiles back. “In two hours, then.”

She would be lying if she didn’t snatch an espresso from the nearest tray to soothe her nerves as she set down the legal files at her desk.  _ Said writ of certiorari is to be passed on to the nearest judicial court in the 11th at once; the High Court is particularly occupied with matters at the moment-- _

What a nightmare. Lauren reaches for the dial on the radio beside her, looking around to make sure no one catches her switching to the news station to keep her busy.

_ “It’s been nothing but the talk of the city! The infamous Purple Hyacinth has struck again, this early afternoon, recently targeting an upper middle-class citizen on Kingsbury--!” _

She staggers back from her desk, nearly spilling coffee on Evans’s legal briefs. She isn’t the only one listening to the radio, however - multiple occupants of the office have started murmuring amongst themselves, some panicked, others making even more calls. And then the cacophony starts: chaos, one by one, as some of the attorneys begin talking worriedly right before Lauren’s eyes, not bothering to whisper anymore: about how the threats are back, how the long-despised Phantom Scythe might be back.

But all Lauren can concentrate on is one detail only.

_ He’s back. _

_ Kieran’s back. _

A glance down at her hand. It held a blade, once, and it’s never really outgrown the handle of one - the calluses on her palm show as much.

_ Postliminium. _

_ Return from the other. _

____

  
  


_ December 4th, XX26 _

_ I’m glad to hear that your first exhibit went well. It hasn’t been as eventful over here. Aquilae & Co. pay well, and the apartment I have is close to what you have, but it’s all so tedious. I should be grateful, I know. They have quarrels with the APD, which means my uncle couldn’t find me if he tried. But you’re doing what you love. And sometimes, admittedly, I feel envious of that. _

_ Though, three years of banishment does allow for some self-discovery, if we’re to call it that. The local bookstore around here always piqued my curiosity, and one day I went in to check it out. Namely out of boredom. Don’t make a joke about me and punching bags being my long-time friend and foe. I can see your face now. That stupid grin.  _

_ DON’T YOU DO IT. _

_ Anyhow, I picked up a few titles. I haven’t had much time to go through them in depth, but I found an old vintage copy of ‘The Secret Garden.’ I used to read it when I was a kid, and I don’t know why I found it a potential reread, but I picked it up anyway. And then I started going through it, and I remembered why. It reminded me of my old self, Kier. My mom and my dad. And...him. One day I’ll tell you about him, too. More in detail, at least. I never did clue you in, did I? Well, some secrets are better kept alone. If only things were simpler. If only we hadn’t left - been forced to leave each other and what we knew. _

_ Your correspondences have been getting shorter lately. We always write monthly, and don’t you dare change that. I’m doing all this secret stuff for you too, you know.  _

_ You promised, after all. And so did I. _

_ -L _

_ (P.S: The rats are still here after one year of extermination services. Stupid rats.) _

____

In some other story, she would’ve been a maiden on a balcony underneath the moonlight, waiting for the return of her lover.

But this is no fairytale, and so Lauren resists the urge to quell the itch to pace around by busying herself with watering her plants on the windowsill of her apartment, flipping through a couple of her books, or just plain old fashioned staring at the wall.

Nothing works. She undoes the tangles of her white dress, fingers teasing the parchment on one of the walls, not fully seeing the patterns in the darkness shrouding her temporary home.

The world map looks down at her. As a child, she’d memorized the world with her own two eyes, and now, even though the globe is shrouded in darkness, she can see it clear as day. The Arkane and Arkanos seas, dividing the two halves of the world. Ardhalis and its sister countries to the east: Beaubonne, Seltel, Orseau, Beltone. Avanleq and the islands of Faroen to the north. To the far east: Isuwara and its wealthy companions, the empires of Jinsan, Shanhar and Ikchaek, below, Nikesse, Ekato, Ibariya, and to the west, Daemora and Avaroen. A million and one places to explore.

Maybe in another life, she could’ve been a traveler. Gone with Kieran anywhere and everywhere. Explored Beltone’s rivers, gone to the sakura festivals in Isuwara, trekked the icy mountains of Faroen. Watched the stars fall in Daemora, gone on cruise boats in Nikesse. Stayed and watched the waters rise, night blinking the moon down at them, matching their partnership that they’ve maintained so long, hand in hand. 

Held him. Held him long and close, rested her head on his shoulder. If she kissed him, would he have tasted like sandalwood and sugar? 

Lauren raps the side of her head. He is her  _ partner.  _ She will not and cannot  _ kiss  _ him.

So, with all options exhausted, she ends up back on the balcony again, rubbing at her hair. The phone has been ringing non-stop for a half minute now, and she takes the call outside, grateful to have a distraction, even an unwelcome one.

_ “We don’t have much time, Sinclair.” _

“I presume I’m back in the field then,” she says, heart racing in her chest. “How soon and when? I’m not going to jump into an operation I have little to no knowledge about.”

_ “Oh, the Purple Hyacinth’s endeavors today were for show. You of all people would know that. Rest assured we have taken all precautions to reach out to our sleeper agents - including you - and have plans in store.” _

“But you’re not going to tell me immediately, aren’t you.”

_ “You’re a quick learner.” _

“I wouldn’t have gotten where I am if I wasn’t,” she bites out bitterly, watching the full moon wash over the city. “At least give me something to work with. I’m not going to be yanked around on some chain like a pet--”

_ “But you are all the Leader’s pets, are you not?”  _ purrs the thin voice.  _ “Careful where you tread, Sinclair. Our true mission begins soon. You’ll receive correspondence in two days’ time.” _

The line disconnects, and Lauren angrily winds the cord around her hand, placing it and the phone back onto its hold near the balcony. A quick blur of motion catches her eye, and her hand goes to her waist reflexively - but no dagger nor sword rests there. Katoptris is hidden below the floorboards, and the adrenaline in her veins quells for only a moment as she discovers a bird landing on the railing, twittering.

It has, however, distracted her from the actual figure darting from rooftop to rooftop, with one hand in anticipation and the other in a feeling he can’t quite place.

Lauren sees him just as he is meters away from her.

And then  _ runs. _

Runs like she’s never run before in her life, when a vision in black and dark blue lands on the balcony, perched like a cat, katana at his side. His hair is tousled, longer after three years, in that familiar bun now, but the face is still the same. Still those stormy eyes. Still that silent walk, even as he jumps down and raises his arms to greet her. 

She collides into him with the force of a star, and he sweeps her off her feet like she weighs nothing, impossibly nothing at all, swinging her around for only a second, her feet dangling in the air, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. For an odd moment, when Lauren finally looks into Kieran’s eyes for the first time in three years, and they both laugh, she feels the urge to mend their broken souls, to merge their bones and blood as one, draw him closer, closer - but the urge passes as soon as it appears.

“Hello, darling.”

“Subordinate,” she quips, the two of them still attached to each other, never letting go. “Did you miss me?”

Kieran raises an eyebrow. “I promised not to lie. So I can’t exactly say no.”

“And you’re still an idiot,” she murmurs, smiling as she presses their foreheads together, whole once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BABIES ARE BACK, THEY'RE BACK, BACK BACK AGAIN!
> 
> First off: _thank you_ for the 2,000+ hits on Scheherazade. My little brainchild has garnered a warmer response than I ever could've anticipated, and I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I really did think my niche little AU would be well, niche. Spoiler alert: it was not. 
> 
> We're in the thick of it now, folks. Expect Season 2 material to show up one way or another in the near future, and intrigue as well - I can't believe we're almost halfway through. Chapter 17-onwards are a doozy, and I'm particularly excited to write them. You'll find out why.


	17. love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he actually does leave, she reassures herself he’ll come back. 
> 
> But a small part of her tells her that she doesn’t want him to, and that if he keeps returning, the fervor that has been wrapping around her heart like a vice will break, and break her, and both will shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, for this fic, I don’t leave beginning notes. But this chapter is the exception. Stop whatever you’re doing and go get a mug. An empty one. The empty mug is for your tears, of course, so I can start collecting them.
> 
> See you on the other side.

The Grim Goblin is still loud as ever, and the target crowd hasn’t changed much, either. When she and Kieran look around the bar, they no longer know who is on their side or who isn’t, but it has always seemed to attract the rough-around-the-edges type. Or maybe that’s just her worldview kicking in. Her mother had always told her not to judge, but being unbiased has never been one of her strong suits.

Even she can tell.

“Arthur Desmond,” Kieran recites, setting down his mug, both of them hovering over the file a Messenger had given them in the back, in their old waiting spot. “Connections to Viscount Redcliff. He lives in a mansion overseeing Ardhalis Beach, so we’ll have an easy escape route out this time. It’s an easy target.”

“Easy after three years of being metaphorically asleep?” Lauren questions, their figures blending into each other, framed by dim light. Red into black, the ivory coat hanging off of her like a cape. The bartender continues wiping down already-fogged up crystalline glasses.

“I’ve been keeping up my skills. And I highly doubt you’d let yours go to waste.” He cocks a brow. “Of so little faith, _mon amour?”_

“Call me that one more time and we’ll see where your kneecaps end up.” Lauren’s voice is sugary sweet.

He laughs, loud and clear. She resists the urge to shrink into herself - it’s been ages since she’s heard that laugh. Something she’d taken for granted all the years he was away. And now that he’s back, she has to constantly hold herself back from grabbing onto him at odd intervals of the day - reassuring herself that he is there, her hand rushing away from his at the last second, resisting the pull of his waist, how broad his shoulders are, how tall he’s gotten; he’s always been tall, and they’ve never been that far apart in height, but now he seems to carry himself differently and--

She is going mad. There is no other explanation for it. She is going mad.

“Always the jugular with you, huh?”

“You know me.” Lauren ties the last band over her high ponytail, shifting in her stool. She doesn’t catch how he looks away from her for a brief second as she tugs on the collar of her striped blouse. “Well? Should we do reconnaissance or do a stakeout for old time’s sake?”

Oddly enough, he seems discomforted by this, mouth twitching downwards. “I’ll go in and check the place. It’ll be difficult to get in with the amount of guards he has stationed. They wouldn’t notice one person, and they wouldn’t notice both of us later on, but for safety measures--”

“I’ve got it.” Lauren nods along. The air pulls tight between them. It’s as if glass separates them despite their eagerness to be with each other - now they know the walls have ears; the floors have eyes; and eyes can belong to faces with mouths that tell lies and secrets all too well. “It’s no problem at all. I was just bored with years’ worth of routine.”

“Routine’s a good thing to have,” he argues lightly, all splayed limbs and easy grace. At times, he reminds her of a black cat in languid sun. “Keeps your mind sharp.”

“Well, at least you had the kids. All I had were whining attorneys.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Kieran admits, a small grin coming to fruition, but disappearing too soon. His eyes flit around the bar, and when he stands to leave, she won’t deny that her heart deflates a little - she’d only gotten him back just a couple of hours ago. But he notices this, flicking his finger over her hand - a promise - and nods.

“Later.”

“Later,” she says, and when he actually does leave, she reassures herself he’ll come back. 

But a small part of her tells her that she doesn’t want him to, and that if he keeps returning, the fervor that has been wrapping around her heart like a vice will break, and break her, and both will shatter.

____

  
  


He manages to hijack a car, somehow. When she was younger, Lauren looked up to him, as did most of the younger recruits in the Foxglove. Always the competent one, favored with a dark past hovering behind him in the shape of bat’s wings. Admired for his skill and ruthless finesse. But as she grew up beside him, with him, she began to separate the man from the myth: he was a planner. Cool and calculated in the heat of battle. Strategizer and warrior both - so was she, but her fire could not be quelled. It didn’t want to be.

It’s why she trusts him to make things go right.

It’s why she doesn’t trust herself tonight. But Lauren exhales as she walks his way, heels clacking on the dark, damp cobblestones of the city. It rained later today - the dew is still fresh in the air. They match, for once, dressed in black. His shirt is two buttons loose as always, taut around his chest. The coat goes down to his ankles, in contrast to her waist-length one, made of hard material and lined with silver. A tunic and tight leggings, with daggers strapped around her thighs. Katoptris finally presses against her back, in its rightful place. 

He motions to the automobile, silently, a XX23 make, all hard lines and smooth plating, as he opens the door. Their eyes lock for far too long.

“Hop in the car, darling,” he says, voice slightly raspy around the edges. “I need you here with me.”

____

  
  


They get through the guards. 

Usually, they always do, but inside, there are more waiting for them, which is unusual; or it would’ve been three years prior. She and Kieran take them out one by one, and this time, neither of them kill. Lauren doesn’t bother to try to understand why her hands will not summon her usual vengeance, but she knows that beneath her skin, she has changed to the core. 

So has he - perhaps that’s why she’s feeling particularly anxious on a night like this, their namesake hanging in the sky as a perfect white disk in a sea of nothing, illuminating them both.

“He has proof of collaboration with the royals,” Lauren says, reciting what the file had said. “His library - it can’t be far from here. Or his office.”

“I’ve scouted out both. Most likely he keeps private information in that safe of his. It’s in the third section of the library. I’ll go in.” She tugs him back as he crouches into position, making him almost trip on her limbs, the two of them colliding headfirst into another. Lauren clutches at his collar, easing her face away from his.

“What is it with you?” she demands harshly. “You did reconnaissance alone, you did the stakeout alone. Do you not trust me?” The words come out one by one, harsh stinging barbs like ice pricking his skin.

“Lauren, this really isn’t the time--”

“It’s been three years,” she growls. “What you know, I know.” Her hands soften. “Or do I not? Do you know something about Desmond I don’t?!”

“That’s not it - look, _listen,”_ he says, suddenly looking as if he can hardly stand to be around her. “I don’t want you to get compromised.”

“Compromised,” she repeats, the word ash in her mouth. _“Compromised.”_

“We don’t have time for this,” he insists, as gently as he can, but both their tempers are fraying at the edges. “Find him upstairs, and I’ll collect what we--”

“You can’t lie to me.” Lauren glances up at him, hurt and anger clear on her face. “But you can hide from me. I’m going to his library, and _you_ take him out--”

“You can’t - no, that’s not what I meant - _listen to me,”_ he insists, whispering fiercely. “Calm down. I would never let anything hurt you, Lauren. It isn’t that I think something bad is going to happen to you.”

“Then let me _do this.”_

He stares up at the ceiling, then down back at her, pinching his nose. “Fine. But we meet in the foyer.”

She nods curtly, and without a sound, runs towards Desmond’s library. The metal lock on it is easy to pry apart with a couple of tweaks, the hairpin bending in her fingers, and when she steps inside, silently, the entire affair is awash in darkness, curtains fluttering by a window showcasing the open sea. Lauren takes mental inventory of the wide-open space - bookcases, drawers on the occassional desk to be found, no loose floorboards or anywhere else a man could hide something of value - but there is a safe in the back, as Kieran mentioned. 

Lauren shrugs out Katoptris, the handle glinting. Some things just require blunt force.

When metal splits between her sword, and she manages to carve open a good-sized hole in the vault, her arm is barely able to reach through the safe. But she manages to pull out a thick sheaf of documents, all stamped with the royal insignia.

It all feels too easy. _From His Highness, From His Majesty’s Advisors,_ all too easy.

Lauren glances towards the doorway, gaze flitting between the hallway and the documents. All the evidence the Phantom Scythe needs is here. All the information they need is here. She flicks open the last file - and that’s when she sees it.

_Rosenthal._

Memory makes her head pound like a drum. The file gives no information away other than the reports of the deaths of Dylan and Marcus Rosenthal; a wife long presumed deceased. 

The office. He must have more in his office.

With her abilities, the detour should only take a second. She makes no haste running down the corridors, until she comes to a set of large wooden doors that she very nearly breaks trying to get through. The shelves on the bookcases that line the wall here are far better organized, to her relief, but all she can hear is the thunder of her blood pounding in her ears as she flicks through folder after folder.

Desmond has information on the Rosenthals. Why? _Why?_

Her finger lands on R the same time another figure steps into the room.

It turns out that after three years, her intuition is too late.

Lauren doesn’t have time to reach for Katoptris before they rush towards her, a sharp pain in her gut alerting her to the fact that she’s been kneed in the stomach. Her fists collide with hard muscle as she goes on the offense, reaching for her daggers - but that’s when they topple her over the desk, and she lands in a heap on the carpet. The window here directly overlooks the sea.

All she feels next is a foot colliding directly with her limp body. 

She’ll register who kicks her out the window later. For a moment, she can register a person’s features. But for now, all Lauren feels is the sensation of her free falling down into the depths of the icy ocean, the water slamming into her body like a truck, weighing down her clothes, filling her mouth, suffocating her lungs, robbing her of air, cruelly spiraling her hair into tendrils of red that float above her. 

Cold. Everything is so, so cold and she can barely breathe. She kicks for the surface, but she can’t see anything; it’s all dark and there is no light. Her sword is weighing her down, but there’s no way she’s letting go of Katoptris in her belt. Lauren can barely think as her arms tire trying to reach for above, but the darkness keeps dragging her down, down. Salt fills her tongue, and that’s when she makes her mistake - opening her mouth. Instantly, the sea comes and makes a home of it, crushing her beneath its weight.

But she understands this time. As she floats down, down. 

She was careless. Impossibly so.

But she has done all she can.

____

  
  


Someone comes.

Someone pulls her up, hauling her over his shoulder, eyes blazing with anger and regret. Someone takes her in his arms. 

With all his strength, Kieran breaks the surface of the sea, gasping for breath as he drags Lauren to shore.

____

  
  


She wakes to a sharp pain in her gut, and when Kieran slams his fists down on her chest once more, Lauren bolts upright, retching out seawater. A second thump to her back has her on all fours, waterlogged black clothes dripping wet, as she spits out salt onto the clumpy sand. Granules stick to her palms and wrists and coat her - both of their - outfits in batches of tan and white. When she looks up, the full moon stares down at both of them, spilling a reflection rippling in the pellucid waters. 

The ocean is calm.

She looks to her left. Kieran White is not.

“Kier,” she means to croak out, but no sound comes out. She tries again. He’s still staring at her, and she realizes he is shivering - not from the cold.

_“Kier, I’m—”_

“What,” he grits out, “was so important to find in Desmond’s office that you didn’t even tell me about? Did you find it, Lauren? Did you manage to take it with you when you fell into the _sea and almost died without it?_ ”

**“He had documents the Scythe wanted,”** she manages. “ **Transportation papers.** We were more efficient apart—”

“Yes, apart,” he says, sneering cruelly, and Lauren doesn’t dare meet his eyes, “because my partner isn’t foolish enough to almost get _killed_ by his private _guard._ ”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and that’s when he breaks.

She understands why people fear the Purple Hyacinth so - his wrath is deadly, silent, and no one sees it coming. But this is not the Purple Hyacinth who sits with her under the moonlight, no, it’s Kieran White, whose rage knows no end with her. 

_“Sorry?!”_ he yells, grabbing her shoulders. _“Do you understand what went through my head when I had to kill Desmond’s guard when you were nowhere to be found?! Do you understand Desmond himself is still alive?”_

“Kier, please,” she retorts. “Maybe I was foolish. But—”

“But _what, Lauren?!_ ” he says, and she gasps as he squeezes her harder, letting go when he sees the pain in her eyes. Kieran rakes a hand through his hair, and she realizes with a jolt of lightning through her heart that it spills around his shoulders like raven feathers, soft and tousled. “You could’ve _died._ And it would’ve been _my fault._ Do you understand how the Scythe would take your death? Did you even bother to think before you did what you did?”

“Apologies if this mission didn’t go well for once,” she snaps, standing up. “I got what we needed, anyhow, and you didn’t even bother to ask. I’m here now, and we’ll report to Messenger IV when we get back to the Grim Goblin—”

“You don’t get it,” he says, laughing darkly. “You still don’t get what kind of _hell_ you put me through.” 

“Sorry I did!” she roars, their faces too close to each other. _Step away,_ screams the voice in her head, but she can’t. She’s drunk on this feeling now, being close to him, close enough to smell his scent of sandalwood and now sea salt, to have him towering over her like a shadow, wanting to reach out, touch dangerous things, _touch—_

“No you’re not, because you still don’t understand, Lauren. You fling yourself into danger every single time and you’ve never stopped for ten years straight—”

“I’m sorry I ruined the mission, what else do you _want from me—_ ”

_“Still!”_ he yells, flinging an arm out. “ _Still,_ Lauren! You don’t get it! _I can’t lose you!_ ”

She shuts her mouth, cheeks burning red. They’re both breathing hard now, and she knows one fact well enough in this moment that he must know too: she can’t look away from him. She can’t.

“I can’t,” he repeats, and it’s a whisper this time. “Please, _mon bien-aimee_.” The nickname makes her burn alive. “Please.”

A swallow forces its way down her throat. “Lauren.”

“What?”

“Call me Lauren,” she croaks out. “Not darling. Not _mon amour, mon bien-aimee_ , anything. Lauren. Just Lauren.”

She was wrong; he hadn’t broken when he’d pulled her out of the sea. 

He breaks when he discards all his usual caution, all calculation, all sharp intuition and cool in the heat of battle when Lauren is all fire, impulse and emotion, when he lurches forward and kisses her on the mouth, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. 

_So this is what it’s like,_ she thinks, her lips on his, hot and heavy and dry and _wanting,_ before he breaks away. Guilty. 

“Lauren, I—”

“No,” she growls, and kisses him back, winding her fingers in her hair with one hand and wrapping an arm around his neck, spanning the space in between his shoulder blades, grasping at his wet tunic. He hesitates only a second before he lifts her up by her hips, her legs curling around his waist as he holds her back, as they grasp at each other desperately, barely breaking for air, the taste of salt and sugar growing stronger on their lips. 

_You. It’s always been you, I can’t feel this way with anyone else._

____

On the beach, Kieran White holds Lauren Sinclair in his arms - yes, _his_ Lauren, his one and only, nothing but warmth to be found in their embrace, her hands shifting up from his nape to tangle in his hair, his curls. When they break apart next, the stars are in her eyes as she looks at him. She’s shivering, he realizes, out of fear or uncertainty.

The words stick in his throat. _I won’t hurt you, I need you, stay with me, I was scared you’d die, I belong to you, you, always you._

What comes out instead: “You’re cold.”

“Not quite,” she rasps, and kisses his temple, feather-light. A beginning of something slower, softer. “I’m fine. I’m alright.”

He breaks the rules as he sets her down on the sand, hands on her waist, and instinctively, she presses one hand against his chest to steady herself, their legs tangling with each other. “The things you make me worry about,” he rasps in her ear lowly, blood pounding, roaring in his ears as loud as the sea outside. “The way you make me lose my mind, darling.”

“I’m sorry.” Another kiss down his throat, his pulse. They are each other’s sanctity. “I’m sorry.” 

And when they embrace, cradled in each other’s arms, her head buried in his shoulder and his arm around her waist, Kieran has only one thought in his head. 

_I never knew,_ he thinks, in her arms, all his walls broken down forever. _I never knew I could want anyone the way I want you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Tear Proceeds may be donated to Luna’s Official Tears-of-Readers Jar. 50% of Tear Proceeds will be used to hydrate your tired, romance-hungry fic author, whilst the other 50% will, in accordance with law, be donated to Murder Babies Corporation, and its affiliates, Angry Kywi Agenda Corporation, Beach Kisses Charity, and last but not least, For Every Time A Flower Shows Up In Purple Hyacinth A Reader Cries Law Firm, Esquire. 
> 
> Additionally: I’m doing a Q&A in the comments to celebrate the almost-halfway point! Leave a question alongside your comment, and I’ll do my best to answer ❤️


	18. shattering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m needed elsewhere, anyhow,” Kieran says, bracing himself against the car with one arm, the sleeves of his saltwater-soaked shirt rolled up to his elbows, the open collar exposing the faintest hint of skin. “You should take the automobile back to the Grim Goblin and report. I wouldn’t want to be later than I already am. We’ll figure this out,” he reassures her, stroking the pad of his thumb under her chin. Lauren shivers as he smiles, a promise, the bond singing and tangling between them. “We’ll find out what this is between us. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
> 
> A small moment of silence passes between them. “I don’t know what this is,” she says slowly, voice trembling as he moves forward, her shield against the cold, “but I do know what you want.”
> 
> His mouth parts into a languid grin, the light pressure against her chin turning into a hand that tugs her face forward, near his own. “And what do you want, darling?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I lied about beginning notes: we're going to start using them from now on. As it is, Scheherazade is going to remain PG-13/PG-14 at all times, but please take caution as some of this fic's darker themes are going to start showing up Chapter 18 and onwards. It would be foolish of me to not warn my readers in advance. Therefore, whenever trigger-inducing material pops up, I will do my best to include trigger warnings for any chapters that use them.
> 
> That being said: Chapter 18 is one of the longest, if not _the longest_ chapter in this fic. It deals with the following materials: **minor depressive episodes, PTSD following a traumatic event, references to emotional and physical abuse, trauma affecting one character's relationship with food, and references to one character being verbally assaulted.**

The first thing she sees when she wakes is a pair of brilliant, beautiful blue eyes.

Lauren then looks down to see a black coat spread underneath their heads. Kieran’s jacket is shielding them, in a sense, from the elements. Of course he’d be the one to literally give her the clothes on his back. When her eyes flit back up to his face, he’s smiling at her, unparalleled joy smoothing his normally tense features into something that actually looks remarkably young. As if he was a simply lovestruck, naive boy instead of a calculating and bloodthirsty killer.

A wave of possessiveness suddenly seizes her. She is the only one in this world able to witness him like this. Her lips curl upwards, and she flicks a small grain of sand out of his hair. “Morning.”

“Dawn, really.” He yawns, and pulls her closer. She bumps into his chest, closing her eyes as he buries his head in her hair. “We should leave. The guards exchange rotation soon.”

The waves crash into the beach, white foam fading quick into the grainy ground. Lauren bolts up suddenly, briefly yearning for his touch as the warmth fades from her body. She feels for the knives at her belt; Katoptris lies next to her, and she straps it on quickly. _“Damn it._ We - I - Kieran, I’m so sorry--”

“Don’t worry about it. I think we’ve had a lifetime of worrying about things we shouldn’t. Besides, they’ve never caught us.” She startles as he offers her a hand, and she stands with him, gravitating towards his presence as she always has. He still has that look on his face, something between a casual arrogance and a quiet patience. 

“Who are you and what have you done with Kieran ‘I Never Improvise, I Always Worry’ White?”

“Maybe I don’t have to worry about you liking me. Have you considered that?”

She blushes. Straight up turns the exact color of a ripe tomato. “Let’s just get out of here.” Lauren doesn’t dare look at his face as she brushes sand off her clothes, making her way towards the car. 

“Agreed. You can drive this time.”

“How generous of you.” Lauren quirks up a brow as she looks behind her, Kieran lugging his coat in one hand. He’s standing only slightly behind her, some odd expression on his face she can’t place. “Are you getting in? You don’t look like you’re coming with.”

“I’m needed elsewhere, anyhow,” Kieran says, bracing himself against the car with one arm, the sleeves of his saltwater-soaked shirt rolled up to his elbows, the open collar exposing the faintest hint of skin. “You should take the automobile back to the Grim Goblin and report. I wouldn’t want to be later than I already am. We’ll figure this out,” he reassures her, stroking the pad of his thumb under her chin. Lauren shivers as he smiles, a promise, the bond singing and tangling between them. “We’ll find out what this is between us. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

A small moment of silence passes between them. “I don’t know what this is,” she says slowly, voice trembling as he moves forward, her shield against the cold, “but I do know what you want.”

His mouth parts into a languid grin, the light pressure against her chin turning into a hand that tugs her face forward, near his own. “And what do _you_ want, darling?”

She swallows, hard. “You should kiss me goodbye before you regret it--”

The next thing she comprehends is Kieran’s hands tangling in her hair as he kisses her, hard enough to bruise. Her hands wrap around his neck, and she has to strain to angle her lips against his, standing on her tiptoes, two binary stars circling each other and colliding into each other in a make of hazy stardust. Lauren can still taste the sea on his lips, as he pulls her closer, closer, as if he’ll lose her forever.

“This world is beautiful,” he says into her mouth, a raspy laugh escaping him, “and I know that because it gave me you. But I won’t hesitate for a _second--”_ a kiss at her jaw, nipping at her collarbone, _“--_ if it takes you away from me. I would turn rain into ash if it meant you alone would live. You marvel, _you fire._ Do you know what you do to me?”

“Always the flatterer, subordinate,” she says, stealing one last kiss before she parts from him; forces herself to. _“Go._ I’ll meet you later.”

____

  
  


Messenger IV is there as usual, and this time as a woman, Lauren guesses - the voice is hard to discern through the thick cloth of the bird masks the Messengers wear. They swap roles every so often, as to not get caught; this she expects, but now it seems as if it’s happening more often: she supposes the Phantom Scythe doesn’t want to give away the true strength of their forces now that they're made a comeback. 

What Lauren doesn’t expect is the strong sense of deja vu she gets after she steps back into the bar, wherein a knife sails straight through the air, almost aiming for her face.

She catches it by the hilt, whirling around to glimpse her attacker - but when she spies a familiar pair of dark eyes and a grin, Lauren twirls the throwing knife in her hand, welcoming Dunya Almari with open arms.

“What are you _doing--”_ she punctuates the last word, ruffling the younger girl’s hair affectionately, making her step back, crossing her arms in a mockery of embarrassment, “--in a den of thieves and liars?!”

“I am a thief and a liar,” shoots back Dunya, raising an eyebrow. “It’s been ages, _Sinclair.”_

_“Almari,”_ she jokes, the two laughing in tandem. Lauren’s protegee had just turned sixteen in the spring, and it shows in her build - she’s no longer a child, truly, and walks with the air Lauren had learned how to craft as an assassin-in-training, once, silent and confident. Black hair spills over her shoulders, dark rivers framing a face now sharp and angular, eyes framed by thick lashes. She looks like she could rob a man in broad daylight and escape by playing the innocent act all too well.

“I’m accompanying two others on a mission.” She wrinkles her nose. “Stopped by to check in with the Messenger. Has it always been loud as a band orchestra in here?”

“That much hasn’t changed,” Lauren grumbles. “Please tell me you were leaving this hellhole.”

“You’re in luck.” Dunya practically races over to the door, opening it to bring in a whirl of winter air, the rain outside a light drizzle. “And I don’t think you of all people should be spending more time here. The news has broken out about Desmond.”

“He’s been arrested,” Lauren says, jaw clenching. “The police took him into the Tower - the Scythe sent over infiltrators to forge documents displaying proof of his ‘crimes’ against the royals.”

“First mission gone awry.” The clouds above begin to clump together, signs of a far-off storm soon approaching. “Did - did Messenger IV--”

“He said Kieran had been given orders to fix the situation.” She inhales, holding her arms tighter around herself as they walk down the street, gas lamps flickering to life. “They’re furious with us, but not like I thought they would be. He’s infiltrating the Tower as we speak. Sent on a rescue mission for once.”

Dunya looks at her in bewilderment. “Rescue mission?”

“We need the convicts - the ones we left alive, anyhow - as an information source.” Lauren can’t discern the odd expression slowly creeping over her companion’s features. “Our goal as Lune is still active, I suppose--”

“No, I don’t think you do, because--” Dunya breaks off. “You - you didn’t hear?”

Cold begins to creep into her skin. It has nothing to do with the rain above, although it has begun to grow heavier. People around them are starting to lift their umbrellas, rushing away from the sudden downpour dampening the cobblestones a dark black. “Hear what, Dunya?”

“Lauren.” She swallows, hard. She recognizes that look now. Her eyes are darting to the side. Her voice is breaking off.

Before she can speak again, Lauren interrupts. “Look, if Kieran actually had a secret mission, he would’ve--”

_“Lauren.”_ And that’s when dread fills her stomach, carving her into a figure of ice and fear. Dunya pulls a newspaper out of her pocket, the girl’s beige coat rustling in the wind as Lauren begins to comprehend the bold print of ink staring her right in the face, rapidly contorting into nothing as the rain wets the sheaf of paper.

**_PURPLE HYACINTH STRIKES AGAIN, KILLS LUNE CONVICTS_ **

_In a sudden twist of events, the Purple Hyacinth has betrayed the Phantom Scythe by killing their former members-in-arms! Could this be a sign of..._ **more on page 11…**

Her hands begin to crumple the paper.

“He wasn’t lying,” Lauren whispers, laughing mirthlessly. “The Messenger wasn’t lying when he said - there was a rescue mission - not a...”

“Lauren,” Dunya says softly. “I--”

“Who could’ve ordered him, behind our backs?!” she demands, voice growing louder. “Who in the Phantom Scythe--”

“He went on his own.” Dunya looks up at her solemnly. “Not on orders. I know him too, Lauren. Not like you, but...this was his doing.”

Silence.

_I’m needed elsewhere, anyhow._

_You should kiss me goodbye before you regret it._

“I’m sorry, Dunya.” She hands her back the paper unceremoniously, tugging her hood over her head, covering up her signature hair. “I’ll see you later, alright? I have somewhere to be.”

“Wait--”

Lauren doesn’t wait, and begins running down the street, water splashing at her heels. Somewhere in between the 10th and 11th precincts, her hood falls off, but she pays no heed to it, clothes soaked to the bone, cold creeping up every inch of her skin, hurt and anger a vice squeezing her heart twice around the center. She knows where he is. She knows she’ll find him there. 

And she will demand why he has kept this secret from her, even after they _promised._

______

In the dim light, he is but a statue carved out of ivory and blue, a book positioned in his hands. He’s been keeping himself busy, slightly rocking the chair he’s sitting in, one leg crossed over the other. When he turns to see her, his visage first morphs into shock, then one of exasperation. The raven strands artfully rumpled around his forehead and temples curl at the edges from the dampness of the cave, lit up blue and green from overhanging crystals, eyes shining with expectancy.

Her heart almost gives in as he rushes towards her. Lauren sways to the side, bent over with exhaustion, water pooling down her black clothing, running in rivulets down pale skin. If he touched her bare skin now, he’d freeze.

“You ran all the way here,” voice full of concern. Kieran takes a step forward, squeezing her shoulders. “I assume you heard about what happened. You’ve probably caught a cold by now--”

“Stop.” Lauren doesn’t recognize the words coming out of her mouth, devoid of emotion. _“Stop_ acting like everything’s fine. You--” She shoves him back, clutching at her forehead. “You killed all of them. All the convicts. _All of them._ Explain yourself, Kieran. Explain what you just did. I want to know _why.”_

He flinches for only a brief second, inhaling sharply. “I’m actually quite glad you’re here now. That means it can begin.”

“It?!” Lauren demands, laughing mirthlessly, half-mad with winter running a fever through her veins. “What have you done?”

Kieran looks at her. She nearly reels from the pure openness of his gaze - there is trust, there, in the pool of his irises, the trust of someone who has laid their heart bare for only one other to see it so. Trust that shouldn’t exist in the world they share, of decrepits and worse things to come in the night.

“We needed them.” Her mouth parts, air entering her lungs in droves. “We needed them alive, and on our side, and you just went and--” _Slaughtered them all. So they couldn’t give us information about why they defected. Much less insight into the royal family._

The realization hits harder than it should, and that’s when he starts speaking.

_“We_ were baptized in blood and fire. As children,” he says, his mouth a hard, grim line. “As children, we were forced to train, to kill, to be their attack dogs. To be puppets under their command for eternity, or at least until they’d had their revolution. But you and I both know revolution in their eyes doesn’t mean ending the hierarchy in this city. It doesn’t mean equal conditions for all. It means endless war, Lauren. Chaos. Anarchy. There will be no peace if the Phantom Scythe is allowed to continue on.”

“Don’t.” Lauren shakes her head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. It can’t be. “Don’t do this to me, Kieran.”

“For the last time,” he murmurs, a sudden anger entering his voice. “For the last time, I had to kill. To prevent them from gaining an upper hand. To prevent them from getting their fill of blood. _This order cannot continue to stand.”_

She steps back, the water on her clothes now dripping onto stone like a rhythm. In continuous Morse code. “You can’t be serious.”

When he looks at her next, all her hopes are annihilated. 

“I don’t know what the consequences will be for me. But they can’t be worse than whatever is going to happen to thousands of lives.” He holds out his hand. “Let’s end this together, Lauren.”

Silence fills the space between them, curling around their ankles and hands like fog. The faint blue glimmer of the cave around them has turned to red in her eyes - all she can see, in the distance, is not him waiting for her to take his hand, but him as a child, calming her pulse, aiding her, training with her, helping her, running together with her in the garden, in the cafe, the two of them fully grown--

“For once, I wish you were lying to me,” she croaks out. 

His hand wavers. “Lauren--”

“Don’t.” She shakes her head wildly. “Don’t you _dare -_ how can you do this to me? We made a promise. A _deal._ We are the only force strong enough in this city to guarantee its eventual improvement. Rebellions aren’t peaceful, Kieran - I thought you knew that. And now you’re going to risk both our heads just because you want to destroy the entire organization? Usurp the Leader? _Worse than that?”_

“In recent years, I’d hardly call the Phantom Scythe a rebellion group than a terrorist one,” he says, voice growing rough around the edges. “You know that. You _have to know that.”_

_“What did you think was going to happen?”_ she screeches, her screams echoing in the cave. _“You would destroy them all, and we’d run off into the sunset like some redeemed heroes working for the other side?”_

“We were never heroes to begin with.” His hands are at his side now, balled into fists. 

“I’ll tell you what we are,” she rasps, grinning cruelly. “I’ll tell you. We’re their nightmares. We’re monsters in the night.” She spreads her arms. “Happy?”

Kieran doesn’t speak for a beat of five.

And then he laughs. Dread consumes her whole as he begins to walk towards her, footsteps as silent as a panther’s, on the hunt, on the prowl. Something else, too, fills her to the brim. Unfamiliar and tangible on her skin, gooseflesh rising to the occasion, making her want to bolt, to run.

_So._ She swallows. _This is what fear is._

“You like that, don’t you?” He rakes a hand through his hair, a wicked smile on his face. All the warmth that had once been on his visage is gone. “You’ve always liked that. Playing a monster in the night with me. Pretending you were all high and mighty just because you had a tragic past and thought yourself some tragic heroine just because your parents passed. That made it okay, didn’t it? That made it okay to go along with the Scythe’s plans. Spared you from their punishments, because you always went along willingly with their bloodthirsty plans - because you were bloodthirsty yourself.”

“You _dare--”_

“I _dare,”_ he growls, “tell the truth about you wanting revenge and nothing but revenge. And if the world burns - you don’t, quite frankly, care _one bit.”_

“Like you’re not a killer too? This is not a game, Kieran!”

“It’s not a game, but it always has been to _you!”_ he roars, gesturing to her. “Did you even think about what happened to others while you spiraled into a rage all your life? Did you even think about how they got here? Did you think about the suffering that went on every single day of every moment that went on here, in this very compound, while you pretended you were working towards the greater good?”

_“Look at yourself first!”_

He steps back at the same time she does, gasping for breath. 

“You’re that blind,” he mutters, hurt in every inch of his expression. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think you’d be this blind to it all.”

“Blind to _what?!”_ she spits.

And when he towers over her, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear, she knows that he is too far gone for her to bring him back.

“Dunya was kidnapped like you were,” he whispers, “but that’s where you two split paths. She didn’t have a very good home life, but she still loved her parents. They beat that out of her. Isolation chambers for five hours straight.”

“Don’t--”

“The circus troupe Redcliff raised. Greychapel orphans. They came up with very creative ways to help them perform their tricks. Imperfect performance was punished harshly.”

“Kieran, stop it--”

“And I,” he says, shuddering with the weight of ten years’ grief and anger, “got twenty lashes each time a mission did not go right. Didn’t want to kill. Didn’t want to go along with their plans. Didn’t want to be their _monster.”_

_“Enough!”_ Lauren shrieks, struggling in his grip. She strikes a blow to his stomach, and he stumbles back, the imprint of his hands around her wrists still lingering. Both of them look at each other - almost apologetic for a brief second - as if the impulse to say _I’m sorry_ is still there; if the desire to comfort each other and tend to each other’s wounds is, too.

But they’re drifting apart. Maybe they have been for ten years.

“Was it all a lie?” she croaks out. “Was it all false, the beach, this morning - when you kissed me, was that all a ruse to get me to go along with your plans?” 

He looks down. **“I don’t love you,”** he says, and she trembles where she stands. **“What we did that night, on the beach, this morning, wasn’t real. It wouldn’t serve me well to have feelings for you, and it wouldn’t serve you well to have feelings for me. I know you thought otherwise, but really, Lauren? Did either of us confess that night? And you and I have known each other for years - it’s only natural we’d be attracted to each other.”**

“Only natural,” she repeats, silently watching as tears slip down her cheeks. “Say all of that. Say all of that again so I can hear you _lie directly to my face._ ”

He doesn’t flinch as he looks back up, reaching up to caress her face, eyes cold and dark.

“I don’t love you,” he whispers, and that’s when she slaps away his hand and begins to walk out the cave, the rain melting into her skin like ice.

____

He realizes his mistake when she starts to leave.

The least he could do was keep her safe by breaking her heart. 

But all too late he realizes what he has done. She can’t leave now. Not when _they’re_ coming. Kieran begins to run after her, swiping the object he’d been keeping in the duffel bag not far away from him. He will regret this for the rest of his life. He knows this much, but perhaps men like him are cursed to forever be in arm’s reach of the one thing they want the most. 

_I’m sorry._

When he catches up to her, he reaches for her. Lauren writhes in his grasp, furiously kicking at hard muscle, one hand bound in his vice-like grasp, her body held back by the arm wrapped tight around her, tight enough to make her gasp for air; back pressed against his chest. 

“Let go of me - I said _let go!”_

“Stay still,” he grits out, anguish clear on his face as he plunges the needle of a syringe directly into her neck.

____

  
  


She falls to the ground, her head full of stars.

The scent of petrichor fills her nose. There had been a needle. A lie. 

Lauren kicks out wildly. Kieran falls to his feet behind her, and she doesn’t look behind her as she stumbles out of the cave, rain pelting at her skin again. Thunder crackles high above, and branches scratch at her arms and hands as she rams into a tree, gasping for breath. She feels fine - the needle hadn’t injured her skin - but she grabs at her throat anyhow. What had he put in? Is it her own panic that makes her feel slightly dizzy, and about to faint, or something else?

A gunshot rings out in the distance.

_“Do not kill! I repeat - do not kill! Take them into custody! We need every single one of them alive, and the children too!”_

No.

_No._

_“Dunya!”_ she screams, voice raw and ragged, as she sees a black-haired girl run into the fray, kilometers from her. Lauren doesn’t question how she manages to run all the way from the forest into the entrance of the Foxglove Compound on sheer adrenaline, but arrives in time to block a second dust bomb from being thrown at the front lines defending the compound. She tackles Dunya to the ground as the police are driven back, some of them falling to the ground permanently.

“You’re here?” Dunya asks in bewilderment, gripping onto her balisong, wincing as another explosion rocks the ground. Lauren clutches onto the girl’s head, watching as the chaos explodes around them.

“You need to get out, now—” She flings Katoptris out of its clutch, blocking a stray bullet their way. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

“Lauren, they found us,” Dunya says, gripping onto her. “They shouldn’t have. None of them knew our base was here.” Another explosion. “Listen _\- someone tipped them off.”_

“I know that, I just need you to—”

“They got the tip from someone who knew our base! They tracked the source down to the cave in the woods!” she exclaims, as Lauren turns to her in horror. Dunya is pulling her away from the fighting, into the trees again. “Did you - did you do this?”

She doesn’t look hurt. Her protégée looks relieved.

_Isolation chambers for five hours._

“It was him,” Lauren chokes out, and her heart breaks. “Kieran sold us out.”

“Then you need to get out of here!” The police have started breaking through the ranks. “Go _now!_ They’re probably looking for you and him both! We’ll hold them off.”

She doesn’t have the strength to protest. Lauren sees through blurry eyes as she steps back into the forest, sword dangling as a deadweight in her hands. Dunya is right - she is competent in battle with her knives alongside three others - some of who she recognizes from the troupe. Somewhere down the line, her mind goes numb with the shock, merging together the forest with the city and the sky above. Cold no longer affects her as she stumbles down the street. He must have injected her with _something,_ because she feels drowsy and is beginning to see double.

Or maybe he didn’t do anything and she’s just going crazy from the events of the last twenty-four hours. A bubble of laughter escapes her lips. She doesn’t feel like crying though, despite having been what she went through.

And that’s what hurts now. She’d known that sooner or later the police would come after them both. She’d known that the city would delve into deeper chaos than it had ever been in before. And she’d expected - somehow - that she would be lied to, played around with, toyed with, and betrayed a thousand times over before giving her enemies a thousand times the hell they’d given her.

She just hadn’t expected the one person she trusted most in this world to do all of those things and more. It’s her fault, really. Lauren acknowledges this much as she gathers up the last remnants of her strength to stumble into the 11th precinct, duck into an alleyway, and begins to stash Katoptris behind a stack of boxes.

_You loved,_ she thinks. _And so you became weak._

The next wave of dizziness that hits makes her brace herself against the side of the wall, heart pounding in her chest. 

“One block,” she rasps, slamming a hand over her mouth. “Come on.”

It feels like walking across the desert. It feels like being swept away in an ocean storm. But just this once, she allows herself to collapse against a wooden door, furiously banging the handle above into the mahogany three times. She won’t last much longer. 

_“At this hour, could you at least send an envoy before—”_

Her past stares her right in the face.

Tristan Sinclair drops his mug. It crashes into the floor and shatters into a brilliant array of pieces. 

“Lauren?” he whispers, incredibly sad and yet, somehow, hopeful despite all odds.

“Uncle,” she breathes, smiling before collapsing onto his doorstep, the world darkening into a glorious nothingness that commands her to sleep.

____

She knows it’s all gone right when one of her underdogs stumbles into the room.

Something about the weather makes Belladonna think back to the past. The air in here is warm, a fireplace crackling in the hearth keeping away the cold, but she shivers despite it all, tugging on her silk black gloves. Memories have a way of showing up when you least want them to.

“Someone has betrayed the Phantom Scythe,” he pants. “The Foxglove Compound was invaded.”

Belladonna sneers. “Has it been, now? I never cared for that place.”

She didn’t, truly. She never had. Old ghosts chased her down the hallways like hounds at her heels.

_“You are our weapon, girl!” snarled the man, throwing down his whip. She shuddered as it struck the floor, crawling back and standing up on shaky legs. “Power can only be achieved by those who dare grasp for it. The rest are weak and cowardly and nothing. You are frail as glass. You will continue to be powerless until you have proven more of yourself.”_

_“I’m sorry,” whimpered Belladonna, tugging at her short hair._

_He sighed in relent. “Begin interrogating our prisoners again this time - and do not cower.”_

“Let’s begin, then,” she says, standing. “I suppose I’ll be the one to carry on Apostle Seven’s work.”

____

“...It’s been a week.”

“...We must give Lady Sinclair time to recover.” The voices float down to her, muffled as if her ears are stuffed with cotton. She is sitting at the bottom of an eternal ocean, eyes closed, the darkness swirling around her as a welcome nothingness. “The doctor said she isn’t sick with anything, despite her time out in the cold. She might’ve been held captive by the Phantom Scythe for ten years. No doubt the poor girl must be traumatized.”

_Phantom Scythe._

The two words are like a strike to the head, and her eyes snap open. The maids stumble backwards in shock, gasping as she sits upright, ramrod straight, clutching at her head. Her hand goes down to her neck. She’s in a rather soft down bed, the blankets rumpled around her legs. The room around her is familiar, almost. And that’s when it clicks - it is familiar, because it is her childhood room, which has been modified rather quickly to accommodate a twenty-two year old. In a flash, the blonde maid is at her side. “Lady Sinclair? Are you alright? You’ve been asleep for quite some time. You’re alright,” she says, stressing the last word. “You’re safe here.”

She blinks, once, twice. When she turns her head to the side, a vanity lies behind her, mirror showing her face back. The woman who looks back at her is a mockery of her old self - pale and exhausted, dressed in a thick ivory nightgown with auburn hair falling around her shoulders, tangled beyond belief. She looks, despite all odds, a little sickly, but fine.

She does not feel fine by any means.

Lauren sways to the side, dizzy. “I escaped,” she rasps, throat incredibly dry. It isn’t a lie; she’d escaped the police, the Foxglove, _him._ “Where - where is my uncle?”

“He just went to check in with the city doctor. They should be back.” The maid on the right, a ginger-haired woman, quickly hands her a cup of warm tea. She downs it without tasting it. “You look rather pale. It’s been a week, and you’ve been unconscious for that amount of time. You should rest—”

“My legs are cramped up,” she confesses. “Could I walk? For only a short while? And—” She hesitates. “I wasn’t poisoned or anything, was I? On the way here?”

The two maids look at each other. The blonde one gestures towards a slip of paper on a nearby drawer, which the ginger-haired one takes and reads. 

“Reports of _passiflora incarnata_ serum in your veins. Someone was trying to naturally sedate you before you got here. No side effects, is what is said here. And she can go only around the upper floors, Lucy,” she confirms. “The doctor recommends she gets used to her surroundings.”

“Right. Eliza, could you check if the cooks could whip up something quick for her? She must be starving after all that bedrest.” Lucy bestows her a small smile as she helps Lauren get off the bed, and loops an arm around her upper body when Lauren almost falls on wobbly knees. When they make their way out of the room, she inspects her surroundings: a large hallway, with a clear view down to the foyer. Through two thin sheets of glass, behind the dining room, she can spot hints of a garden large enough to span a couple meters wide. No foxgloves, no datura. Roses and lilies and daffodils. How harmless. But then she spots a purple hyacinth waving in the wind, and turns away quickly to avoid throwing up. 

“Feeling better?”

“A bit.” She musters all the effort she has to thank this kind woman, when she hears footsteps rocket up the stairs. A man in a doctor's uniform stands beside Tristan, who has turned slightly pale with shock.

She barely gets time to breathe before he runs towards her, hugging her tightly. Lucy stands to the side, dabbing at her eyes. Lauren stands there numbly before she weakly throws her arms around her uncle, her last living flesh and blood for now, smelling of cinnamon and all things reassuring.

_He_ was right, in a sense. She didn’t know where else to turn to, and now she can afford the luxury of all of this - a safe house. Which Dunya and the others cannot.

“I had hoped,” Tristan says into her shoulder, and she realizes he is full-on crying, “that you were alive. Somehow. But even after your kidnapping in the years after, despite everyone telling me I was in denial, I still hoped. And now you’re here. After they imprisoned you.” He steps back, wiping away his tears. He doesn’t get it yet. “I’m so glad you’re here now, Ren.”

_Ren._

She has not been called that name for a decade.

Lauren shakes her head. Emotion chokes her, wallows up in her. Every bone in her body is shouting at her that her love is cruel. Her love for her family is her downfall. But she is tired of fighting a war she cannot win over and over again, and so, just this once, she will allow herself to be weak. 

“They didn’t keep me captive,” she mutters. “They made me train to become one of their assassins.”

Tristan’s face contorts at the same time Lucy steps back, gasping. The doctor is beside himself with horror. 

“You - you were _forced_ to become one of them?”

Panic seizes her by the reins. “Yes. But please trust me - Uncle, I escaped, I swear, they nearly had my head - _please,”_ she sobs, but no tears come out. She really should be crying. She isn’t. “Please trust me.”

“I trust you,” he murmurs, embracing her once again, harder. “I trust you. We’ll help you. We’ll help you get through this.”

Lauren tries to make herself believe they will. 

She fails. 

____

Two weeks passes, and here is what happens in those two weeks:

They interrogate her. Briefly. Tristan agrees to it, but does so out of reluctance; he cannot be biased to a potential threat simply because the Chief of Police’s niece has come back from the dead. He orders them to make it short. And so she rattles off answers in the dining room, surrounded by staff, thin arm wrapped with cables attached to a polygraph. _Name? Lauren Marianne Sinclair. Age? Twenty-two. Height? 5’6. Your occupation? Former assassin. Are you the Purple Hyacinth or the Scarlet Queen?_

**_No._ **

The polygraph says she is telling the truth to all of these things.

Tristan doesn’t press for details. He knows she is a valuable source of information, but treats her gently. She loves him for it. She is disappointing him. 

In two weeks, she goes from mildly weak patient in need of bedrest to someone far more broken. She cannot sleep. She tosses fitfully and barely manages three hours a night. The bags under her eyes deepen. Lauren’s mind bombards her with flashes of vivid screams and nightmarish figures. Past and present come to haunt her - Dylan disappearing into fire, Dunya suffering in a cell, Katoptris broken in two on a bloody battlefield, Kieran with a sword in one hand as he destroys the Phantom Scythe. 

When Lucy takes her into the garden, she requests for the purple hyacinths to be removed. She goes through the motions numbly. She loses weight, and her skin turns sallow.

It has only been two weeks, and by the third, she refuses to walk.

____

“You’re not eating.”

She stares down at the plate of pancakes before her. Lucy had done her hair this morning, into a bun that would’ve normally shown off the sharp angles of her face. Tristan’s spectacles catch the light as he looks down at her. “Can you manage at least a couple of bites?”

Anyone else would’ve been terrified to look into her eyes: once a bright gold, now flat amber disks with no life in them. “Sorry. I just don’t feel hungry.”

“Lauren,” he says, worry palpable in the way he speaks. “You haven’t eaten in two days. Please?”

The butter on the top cake glimmers up at her. She feels nauseous, and pushes back her chair. “I’ll take tea with Lucy upstairs. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to feel sorry for anything. Ren, I’m just worried about you. If it’s too heavy, I can have the cooks make porridge or anything else you’d like.”

She falls silent. Slowly, she carves out a slice of blueberry pancake with her fork, and brings it to her mouth, chewing as if she’s just consumed ash.

It takes her barely three seconds for her to vomit it all up on the floor. Tristan bolts over from his chair, catching her as she falls onto the ground, tears falling like pinpricks on her skin as she clutches onto him for support. 

Maybe the Phantom Scythe really did do a number on her.

“Lauren—”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” she whispers. “I used to like these. And now all they remind me of - is _pain,”_ she croaks out. “What happened to me? I thought I was fine. All these years. Maybe the invasion of the Foxglove was the final straw.” She buries herself in Tristan’s chest. “I’m sorry. _I’m sorry.”_

“Ren,” he whispers tenderly, as she cries harder. “Lucy! Get milk and porridge. I’ll be tending to her myself from now on.” He kisses her forehead as if she is a child. “You have been through so, so much. But you’re here now. You can get better. I know you can.”

____

A month passes.

It is an agonizing process. But she walks. She begins eating full meals again. Tristan has never been happier to see her actually sleepy.

A month passes, away from the life she once knew.

____

It comes to her in the middle of the night. A plan. It infuriates her that she now agrees with _his side,_ but Lauren knows she cannot keep up false pretenses. She will have her revenge another way - with or without the Phantom Scythe behind her. Maybe _she_ doesn’t know what side she’s on yet, but this much she can do.

So she brings it up during dinner with Tristan the next day. 

“I—” Lauren almost wants to laugh at the look on his face. “I don’t think this is the best idea, Ren.”

“I know it isn’t. But I need a sense of normalcy. And friends,” she says, raising a brow. “Don’t you want the best for me? Trust me on this. This’ll help you, too.”

“I don’t know about this.” He runs a hand through his hair. “On one hand, it could be good for you. On the other - you do have, well, a past.”

“We can work it out.” She looks at him. It’s never felt more refreshing to have her destiny in her own hands. “So? Do you trust me?”

____

_“WE WILL HAVE THIS PLACE SPARKLING CLEAN IN FIVE MINUTES OR I SWEAR TO THE HEAVENS THAT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU WILL FACE MY WRATH.”_ Kym looks down from her megaphone. “Except you, Lila. You’re an angel and we’re lucky to have you here.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she stammers, blushing as Lukas storms past her with two buckets of cleaning solution; even the precinct’s grumpiest officer doesn’t want to be at Kym’s mercy. Will leans back in his chair, surveying the area. His subordinate had told him not to worry about the cleanup of the office in order to make it look hospitable for the new recruits they were welcoming in today.

For once, he is grateful for Kym’s bossiness.

_“You! Empty the waste bins! And spray more disinfectant! If I find a single germ I will COMBUST INTO FLAMES.”_

“Good luck with that,” he remarks, snorting.

“Ooh, I’m sorry, did I say something wrong—” Kym says sarcastically. Before he can respond, she has positioned her megaphone right by his ear. _“—LIEUTENANT HAWKES?!”_

He rams his face into his hands. He is no longer thankful.

Lila squeaks as the intercom buzzes. She brushes off her pencil skirt as she reaches over to receive it. “The first recruit is here! Everyone in position!”

The pastries are rushed off to the break room. Lukas tries to command his face into something less fearsome and fails. Kym tugs on her coat, standing at attention at the same time Will does, standing next to her. He wonders who the finalized hires Hermann and Chief Tristan have chosen.

When the door swings open, the entire precinct holds their breath. 

Will loses his the second the recruit steps in.

She is tall, remarkably toned even through the cut of fabric. She wears brown boots, dark navy pants and a fitting beige vest with a tie tucked in neatly. A coat is slung over her shoulders, identical to theirs. Her auburn hair spirals down her shoulders, and she smiles warmly at them.

“Lauren Sinclair,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kym reaches out cheerily, shaking her hand. “Sergeant Kym Ladell! But you can call me Kym. I run things around here, along with this guy,” she says, nudging him in the ribs. “You sure are muscular. Do you _lift?”_

“What?” 

“Lauren?” he whispers, and her eyes widen when she sees him. Before she can greet him, he’s running towards her, embracing her rightly. She squeezes back, and when they part, the recognition in her eyes is too much for him to bear.

“You’re alive.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it - how?”

“Wait.” Kym’s eyes widen. “Hold on - _Sinclair?_ You’re the Chief’s niece? The one who disappeared ten years ago and was forced into becoming an assassin?”

She grows slightly uncomfortable as the police precinct starts to realize who she is. Will opens his mouth, to defend his friend against anything else, but Lauren holds up a hand, briefly silencing them.

“I wouldn’t be here if the Chief hadn’t made sure I was trustworthy. It’s true. I am indeed former Phantom Scythe,” she states. “But I am here to help defeat them now. I know which side I am on, and that is on the side of justice. Please.” She bows, slowly. “Please let me aid you all.”

The entire office goes silent after that. None of them know how to respond to their new recruit’s total display of honesty. One of their sworn enemies has invaded their ranks - only to turn out a seemingly still-vulnerable and regretful former nemesis. Only Kym moves forward, clear empathy in her eyes as she tips Lauren’s chin up, nudging her with her shoulder.

“You’ll be one hell of an officer, that’s for sure,” she quips, and both women laugh softly.

“Second recruit!” announces Lila, and the scene around Will explodes into chaos again as the door opens. Kym has now slung an arm over Lauren’s shoulders, and he senses some of the tension in her figure has faded due to the sergeant’s presence. 

“We’ll accommodate you, if you need it,” he reassures her. “If you do need anything - don’t hesitate to ask, Lauren.”

“I won’t.” Her lips twitch upwards. “It’s good to see you again, Will.”

“Ah, Sinclair. You’re in luck! You’re not the only newbie around here.” Kym sweeps her arm aside to reveal the new recruit who’s just walked in. If Will had been looking a little harder, he would’ve spotted the shock on her face, the way she froze up, and the way her hand instantly flew to her belt, as if seeking out a weapon. “May I present our new archivist - _Kieran White.”_

____

It’s a shame Katoptris isn’t with her.

He is going to ruin her plans. All of them. _All of them._ He doesn’t even look like a proper archivist. He looks like a fool. His shirt is buttoned all the way up to his neck, and suspenders hold his gray breeches up. Glasses veil his eyes, and his hair is unusually neat, tied back in a ponytail with a lovely white bow.

She didn’t even bring knives. Dunya would’ve scolded her, but now she is a - well, _officer of the law -_ and is only able to carry a gun. A weapon, no matter how small, makes her feel secure in this house of hounds who could easily track her down and expose her as a traitor in their midst.

It’s all so ironic, really. He betrayed her, and now she is betraying him. 

It still doesn’t explain what the hell he’s doing here. 

“...and we’ll show you around, don’t worry,” Kym says, batting her lashes. “You and Lauren are quite athletic, aren’t you? Are you sure you don’t want to join the patrol unit like her? We could use someone with your - uh, _physique,”_ she says, and Lauren quivers with disgust as she realizes the sergeant is flirting with her _best friend._

No, he isn’t anymore; he cannot be, after what he did. The innocence of their childhood and easy friendship has slipped into the vestiges of summer, ethereal and never lasting.

Kieran laughs nervously. “Thanks, but I’m fine where I am. I think I’ll visit the bathroom before I visit the archives. And don’t worry about showing me around - I was given a tour beforehand!” He meets her eyes for only a brief second, and for a moment suspended in time, they both nearly break. She sees a thousand emotions collapsing in the oceans of his eyes, grief, denial, all signs of a broken heart and broken soul. And Lauren knows he sees the same exact thing in her eyes. 

The only difference is that her eyes burn gold with anger.

**“I’m going to go fetch something from my locker,”** Lauren blurts out. 

“I could take you there,” Will offers. And as kind as he is, she’ll talk to him later. Not now, when she has answers in her grasp. 

“I can do it on my own. Don’t worry.” She touches his arm briefly; reassurance. “I’ll talk to you two later, alright?”

“See you soon, Lauren!” exclaims Kym, cackling with glee. “Don’t blame you for chasing after the new archivist. You can run, but you can’t hide!”

She forces out a small bark of laughter before closing the door to the office. Lauren allows herself only a moment to breathe before she runs down the hallway, eyes mindlessly alerting her to where the next corner is, or where she should turn, as if her body is on autopilot. No - it is not merely moving out of instinct, it is moving out of _memory,_ because it has always known where to find him.

But he is no longer her ally, is he? Nor her friend. Not her enemy. He can’t possibly be her enemy, and she hates that he can’t be, as she rounds another corner, vision flaring red at the sight of him entering the men’s bathroom, pushing the metal door open slightly. She hates what she felt for him. She hates how he makes her feel.

She will never be able to hate _\--_

_“You,”_ she snarls, and tackles him headlong into the bathroom. Inside is a cold array of tiles on the walls, on the floor, a line of sinks dripping water. She hunches over, breathless with exhaustion and strength, as he backs away, clutching onto the wall for support.

“Lauren,” he says, and her mind blanks at the sound of her name, and he sounds oh-so _plantitive,_ as if he’s longed to see her all this while, but the note of fear in his voice is clear in the way he speaks; she doesn’t need to look up to see that face - that face she _knows._

_You betrayed me. You betrayed me. You betrayed me._

“I can explain,” he breathes, straightening slightly, a hand over his stomach. “Please, just let me explain. I came here on my own mission, I didn’t think--”

_You betrayed me._

She realizes that she’s crying only after she runs over to where he is, hauling his shoulders towards her and kneeing him right in the gut. He stumbles back, colliding into the wall as he gasps for air. He doesn’t get a chance to breathe, as she launches herself forward again, pinning him down, her forearm over his throat. Blue eyes meet her own, and her vision blurs once more. She’d knocked his glasses off.

“Explain what?!” she demands, her mirthless laughter echoing throughout the bathroom. “Explain how you’re here to sell us all out to _them_ after selling me out and stabbing me in the back?”

“I never meant--”

_“I don’t care!”_ she screams, voice cracking at the end. _“I don’t care, Kieran! You betrayed us!”_

He doesn’t bother to plead, but gasps again as she increases her pressure, and his hand snakes around to her back, frantically trying to keep her weight off him as his other hand curls around her hip. And in that moment, the scenario that had been playing in her mind distorts into something else: that day in the cave pooling into the memory of them on the beach, that night, where there had been nothing but the moon and lies, as he had saved her, held her, _kissed--_

“This is what you left me for?!” she spits out, tears rapidly drying on her face. 

“You know what the Phantom Scythe has done,” he retorts. “We grew up there, Lauren. You’ve seen the pain they inflict on others. This city. This is not the way we have to do things, please, just let me explain--”

“As if I ever would,” she says, watching as he bites down on a hiss as she pries his hands off of her, backing away. 

“We spent our lives together. And you go around and do this? How did they even let you in?!”

“My civilian identity is clean - apparently, unlike yours,” he insists, “even though it had to go through a few mishaps. It’s not like I just appeared out of thin air. And you know this is hardly justice, Lauren. It’s cruelty.”

And when he steps forward, that’s when she finally cocks her gun at him.

“You know how to shoot,” he says, freezing in place, and it isn’t a question.

“So you know what happens if you come any closer,” she chokes out, the weapon wobbling a bit midair.

Something like a somber sadness enters his eyes. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to--”

“What?” she demands, and apparently the last of her tears take this time to skid down her face. “Backstab me? Backstab our goals? Because you’re here now, which means you clearly _meant everything._ I don’t even know why I trusted you,” she says, raking a hand through her hair. “I don’t know why. Because it was all a lie, wasn’t it? Tell me it wasn’t. Tell me you _actually_ didn’t mean to betray me in the worst way possible and _do love me.”_

The last three words make them both freeze in place.

“I never wanted to betray you like this,” is what comes out of his mouth next. “But you know what we did wasn’t right. What we did as Lune made things worse.”

She shakes her head slowly, chuckling under her breath.

“You don’t have to worry about Lune anymore,” Lauren says, backing away. It’s only when her back is turned to him again, almost out the bathroom, certain she won’t break down right then and there, when she speaks again.

“Our partnership is off.”

_Traitor, traitor, traitor._

She gets halfway down the hallway before she allows herself to stumble back into the embrace of hard walls and lets out a broken scream, collapsing to her feet and finally, finally letting out gasping, heavy sobs muffled into the press of her knees, curling up into a ball and squeezing her eyes shut. As the reel of her past plays out before her, the most constant film that plays out behind her eyes is the memory of them on rooftops, running around like the children they were and weren’t. 

Untouched by everything and everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry.**  
> 
> 
> (If you want to drive the knife in further, and give me extra tears, here are some song recommendations:
> 
> _x - exile (Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver) “you’re not my homeland anymore / so what am I defending now? / You were my town; now I’m in exile, seeing you out.”_
> 
> _x - The Night We Met (Lord Huron) “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do / haunted by the ghost of you.”_
> 
> _x - Rolling In the Deep (Adele) “The scars of your love remind me of us / I can’t help thinking that we almost had it all.”_
> 
> _x - No Time To Die (Billie Eillish) “Was I stupid to love you? / Was it obvious to everybody else / that I’d fallen for a lie / that you were never on my side?”_  
> 


	19. Incorrect Quotes: The Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I realize I may have broken you a little too hard, and am dispensing the equivalent of a much-needed Breather in trying times.

Lauren: i really regret getting you a blender for your birthday

Kieran, drinking a waffle: why?

Kym: so are you seeing anyone?

Lauren: haha....no. why???

Kym: idk i think a therapist would be good for you

Lauren: Kier! *throws knife at enemy* tell me, how are we looking?

Kieran: sexy. but not like we're trying too hard. like, sure we're trying, but it's effortless-adjacent sexy

Belladonna: why are lauren and kieran sitting back to back?

Julian: they had a fight

Julian:

Julian: why are they holding hands?

Belladonna: kieran gets sad when they fight

Tristan: when i said you should try being friendlier this isn't what i meant...

Lauren, stirring a cup of tea passive aggressively: oh, so now i'm TOO friendly? there's no pleasing you

Dunya who broke into the Sinclair Manor an hour ago: two sugars please

Lauren: coming right up

Kym: mmm will’s chapstick tastes really good

Lauren: oh so you two finally kissed?

Kym: no

Lauren:

Will: she ate it

Will: i’m not looking for trouble.

Lauren and Kieran, simultaneously: what a horrible way to live

Kym: tell me the scariest story you know

Will: life without you

Lauren: tomorrow’s garbage day.

Belladonna: can’t believe they made a whole day dedicated to you.

Lauren: i don't need to 'control my anger'

Lauren: people just need to control their habits of being stupid

Kym, gently tracing her fingertips down Will’s arm: you’re so cringe

Will: you read my diary?!

Kym: at first, i didn’t know it was your diary. i thought it was a very sad handwritten book.

Kieran: sorry, but you're under arrest for robbery.

Lauren: what did I steal?

Kieran, trying not to cry: my heart.

Kym: pardon the intrusion, but-

Lauren and Will: on this moment or just my life in general?

Lukas to Lauren: i dare you to—

Will: lauren isn’t allowed to accept dares.

Lauren: apparently i have ”no regard for my personal safety”

Kieran: you're smiling, did something good happen?

Lauren: i can't smile just because i feel like it?

Messenger IV: _belladonna tripped and fell in the grim goblin._

Kym: *signs a legal document with a glitter gel pen*

Lauren: *sharpens knife* we've got ways of making people talk.

Kieran: *cuts piece of cake*

Chantal: …can i have some?

Lauren and Kieran, simultaneously: cake is for talkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if you want another want of these close to the end because this was really fun to do and also I've been holding these in for like, months now kasjdhfgjhk
> 
> (Chapter 19 (20 now I guess?) on the way. Along with the rest, plus some new plot twists and drama. WORRY NOT.)


	20. remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This city has two rules: pick a side, and if you’re lucky enough, you won’t end up on the bad one.” Lauren looks down at her nails, glancing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “But I’m done with games. I’m on no one’s side but my own. I will see the Phantom Scythe destroyed and this city brought to justice - but don’t you dare think for a second that I am doing this for you.”

**_TWO WEEKS LATER_ **

  
  


“Don’t even think about going in there, Roberts.”

A hand shoots out, and Flemming’s assistant is pulled right back into the throng of men staring up at the abandoned warehouse. Or, at least, a seemingly abandoned one. The smell of gas and metal rises high above in the air, potent enough to turn the dreary gray sky a molten black. “We enter when we’re invited. Unless you’d like _her_ blade at your throat.”

He merely swallows nervously in response. “Right.”

Flemmings merely makes a small noise of exasperation as a small figure exits the entryway to the warehouse, waving them in. He waves over his men, filing in a single line as they pass through a narrow hallway. When they enter the main sector of the warehouse, all around him are workers tending to weapon assembly lines - the engines loud and unfailingly grinding out a harsh melody in the air. The place is about three stories high, and he zeroes in on the engraving on a pile of sniper rifles. 

A viper.

How much has happened in the past two months. But he’s in alignment with the Leader, and can’t risk a potential usurping right here and now. It’s simply the fact that he didn’t expect a power grab so soon. But then again--

“So, you’re here?”

\--Belladonna Davenport was always more ambitious than any of them combined. 

“Are you going to greet us properly?”

“You alone.” She bares her teeth in a smile. The pink-haired woman is dressed in a pinstriped suit, tailored to her every curve and bend. Her signature diamond earrings dangle from her earrings, but the only other piece of jewelry she has on her is a rhinestone serpentine choker; the snake’s openly-fanged mouth seemingly hissing at her collarbone. “You’re in Viper Territory now. My orders, my rule.”

He clenches his jaw. But he raises his hand. “The rest of you out.”

When they disappear from the ranks, she finally descends from the upper floors, her blade tapping on the ground in a slow, methodical rhythm. She is amused at his frustration, no doubt about that. It shows in every detestable pore of her body. 

“Well? Any good news this time around? I know you’ve brought more weapons stocks in. We’re both still Phantom Scythe, you know.”

“Are we?” he fires back. “I’m hardly a bearer of good news when our own organization is at civil war because you decided to take over Apostle Seven’s duties and snatch power from under us. The Leader and the five remaining Apostles seek out your throat.” 

“Ah. You’re still bitter. All this power and no one to control it but me, isn’t it?” Belladonna bares her teeth in a smile. “It’s quite a shame, Flemmings, that you weren’t the one to grasp it in the end. Instead you can do nothing but look up in despair and hopelessness as you watch me take what should’ve been yours.”

“It’s just like you, Viper,” he barks out, laughing harshly. “To draw the line between the founders and hungry recruits. Form your own territory. But you were always power-hungry from the start. Always jealous of the Purple Hyacinth. Always baneful at the Messengers. Annoyed with the Leader. None of this surprises me in the slightest.”

“Really, now? Then this shouldn’t surprise you, too.” She whistles shrilly, and Flemmings and his men wince as two lithe figures descend from the rafters, silently landing on the warehouse floor. The one on the left is about Belladonna’s age, with long ice blonde hair in a ponytail over her shoulders, dressed in ornate breeches and a riding coat, epaulets gleaming on her shoulders. The one on the right is slightly younger, but tall for her age, dark-skinned and with long black hair. They both perch at her side. “I’d like to introduce you to my new personal team. Say hello, boys, to Athena and Dunya. But you would know them better as...well, the _ringmaster_ and the _Huntress.”_ The rings on her fingers glimmer as she claps her hands together.

“Here’s to leaving without a fight and dropping your weapons stocks behind, lest you face a cruel and awful punishment by knife and cane. Are we clear?”

____

Tristan has started the slow process of picking information from her mind. She can tell as much: their daily breakfasts have started turning into half-checkups and half-interrogations. For now, Lauren will continue to feed him enough information to keep any true discoveries at bay, but enough to hack at the wreckage the Phantom Scythe will inflict on the city.

The one who will bring it all down is her, and she can’t possibly risk the police discovering her game before time runs out. She has to play her cards right, and be patient - something she’s never been good at doing, but is a skill she has developed out of necessity. For now, she just has to pretend to play both sides, the impostor and the traitor both, swapping out her swords for guns, swapping out her badge for none.

“Morning, everyone!” she says as loudly as she can as she enters the office, sliding her coat off her shoulders, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.

Instantly she is greeted with a set of eager hazel eyes.

“Mornin’, _officer,”_ Kym purrs, winking. “Ready for orientation?”

Lauren blinks, confused. “I - there’s orientation?”

“Not so much as orientation as it is your first day. First rule of _orientation:_ do not listen to my sergeant,” Will says, coming over and perching next to Lila’s desk. “Lila, please tell Kym not to prank Lauren? I’d appreciate it if you did.”

“Well, in that case,” Lila stammers, turning a bright red, “o-of course, Lieutenant. Kym--”

“I’m aware,” she bites out, nearly crushing the pen in her hand as she glares at the scene before her. None of them notice Lukas making murder eyes at Will not-so subtly using his charms on the receptionist. 

Lauren almost bursts out into laughter, but resists. No wonder why the APD gets nothing done. 

“Unfortunately, Lauren’s _first day_ involves a lot of paperwork alongside tours,” Kym says, raising an eyebrow at Will standing beside her. “You better not overload her like you do me.”

“I highly doubt that when she does get paperwork, she won’t hold it off for two weeks.”

“You should try taking breaks like I do, really,” she drawls, hands on her hips. “Benefits of ‘taking a break’ involve not constantly losing the will to live, and turning into a certain William Hawkes--”

“Do you want to take this outside, Kym?!” he demands.

“Maybe,” she says, a slow grin forming on her face as she looks up at Lauren. “And we can take a third with us to show her the ropes of the patrol unit.” Will’s stunned expression only makes her grin grow bigger. “Clever of me to suggest that, huh?”

“I apologize for Sergeant Ladell,” he grits out, smiling as best as he can at his old friend. “Lauren - why don’t we show you around the basic rounds?”

____

Ardhalis’s structure is that of a rather roughly constructed grid district, and thankfully, Lauren knows the 11th precinct like the back of her hand. But she doesn’t say that to either of her superiors; instead, keeps her mouth shut and nods along with Kym and Will’s instructions as they take her down routes, routes that would normally be muscle memory to her.

“We normally circle Whiterriver twice; Kingsbury’s just down the way…” Kym says, gesturing around them. Will falls behind in step, and before she knows it, she’s tensing up around his presence.

“It’s just me,” he reassures her. He smells like coffee and ink, blonde curls tousled in the cold air. “You’re doing okay, right?”

“I am,” she confirms, smiling a bit. “You two are really helpful. It’s just going to take a while to get adjusted.”

“Right.” Will seems oddly tense at that, scratching at the back of his neck. “Things have changed a lot since you were--”

“Taken. We don’t have to dance around it,” she says. “Really. It’s been weeks since I went through basic training. I’ll let you know if anything’s too much. I’m more curious about you, really.” Switch the topic, gain more information about them than you. Rule number one in the book. “It’s been ten years. You’re a lieutenant now, and…” Lauren allows herself a small smirk. “have a _friend.”_

“She’s my subordinate,” he blusters, and she laughs. How clueless.

“Sure thing, Will.”

“Alas.” He sighs. “I’ve done a lot of things this past decade. And I wish I could tell you a lot has improved. Only some things have.”

She adjusts the gloves on her hands. Lauren knows Will in the way that she knows - knew - Dylan; as a distant memory, a distant ghost. But now her old friend is back, and reconnecting with him is like repairing glass, a slow and delicate attempt. Uncomfortable. “Your mother?”

He inhales sharply. “It’s--” Alarm enters his voice. “Where’s Kym?”

The wind blows, no answer to be found. The scene in front of them is empty of any loud, blue-haired sergeant. Instantly, Will charges forward, Lauren at his heels. She can tell he’s panicked - someone must’ve taken her down the street, or in an alleyway - and even as a gunshot rings through the air, he still runs as if he’s losing time. She watches him with narrowed eyes as they bolt down the next block. Kym can handle herself, and yet--

Two blocks down Whiteriver, the sergeant faces down three men in an alleyway, pistol raised. Will calls her name, and she backs away, relief palpable in her face. 

Lauren merely takes a few steps back, hand flying to the gun in her waist. It closes over the hilt of a dagger next to it. Just from the way these two look at each other - it is clear there is something else going on here. More than long-denied feelings. This is a _partnership._ And, despite her resistance, it makes her miss her own. 

“Surrender your weapons, or we will use force!” commands Will, voice clear as a bell as he and Kym both raise their guns in tandem. “Lauren, stay behind me--”

She does not, in fact, stay behind him, and flies into the fray faster than either of them can say _wait._ Lauren drops into a crouch, twisting her lower body into a low kick that trips up the first man, his gun toppling into the ground. The dagger glints in the light as she ricochets off an old crate, somersaulting off the wall and tackling the second into the ground. A bullet collides with her knife as she slams it into brick, running for the third. His weight seems too big for her to manage on her own, but she slides past his outstretched arm and reaches for his coat anyway, tugging his back onto hers, slamming him onto the cobblestones.

All of them are now splayed on the ground like potato sacks. Kym and Will just stare at her in open-mouthed shock. 

She winces, sliding her mask onto her forehead. “I didn’t kill them.”

“That much is clear,” gapes Kym.

“I’m sorry?” she says, making her voice as uncertain as possible. She strides up to them, clasping either of their shoulders. “Did I do something wrong?”

Kym smiles wider than she’s ever seen her smile. Before Will can react, she’s swept up Lauren by the waist, grinning like a madwoman. “You,” she says, “are the most insane person I’ve ever met. And I have a _very strong feeling_ that you and I are going to be _very good friends.”_

“Ladell. Put down the former assassin and stop squeezing her like a teddy bear.”

“Can we keep the knife lady?”

_“We already have the knife lady,”_ he exclaims, looking as if he’s one second away from losing his marbles. “Put her down. _NOW.”_

____

He doesn’t expect her to come back from patrol so soon. Kieran’s just finished stashing the archive cart in his workplace, and closes the door behind him - only to come face to face with his old friend. Old partner-in-crime. Old--

_Get it out of your head. You betrayed her._ She seems shocked too, initially, but her expression morphs into one of coldness. Auburn strands fall over her face, and a small speck of dust stains her jaw, as if she’s been out fighting. All he knows is that she’d gone on patrol with the lieutenant and sergeant earlier. “What are you doing here?”

Kieran cocks a brow. “I work here. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Conveniently, I also work here, and also need to talk to you, unfortunately,” she bites out. “Why are you here? The Phantom Scythe must’ve caught on about you being the _traitor.”_ She spits the last bit with all the venom she can muster. Kieran steels himself to wipe all remaining weakness from his face.

“They assume I’m still on their side. And civil war has erupted,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “I reported to Messenger III yesterday - Belladonna has hired all the new recruits on her side, and has established Viper Territory in the lower precincts. The Leader and the original Apostles are desperate to seize their old forces back. I’m still of use to them - of use to find Soleil, who has been interrupting their plans for three years straight.”

“So we’re all on the same side,” she huffs. “Great. And how exactly do you plan on keeping their good side?”

“Turning ‘Soleil’ in,” he explains. “I can manufacture fake corpses from Greychapel. An...old friend of mine will help.” Kieran hesitates. “Dare I ask what your plan is, officer?”

_Officer._ Lauren’s scowl grows even colder. “Play the double-crosser until I gain the tools I need to destroy the Phantom Scythe.”

“The long game, then?” He should feel relieved they’re on the same side. He isn’t.

“Suppose so. This city has two rules: pick a side, and if you’re lucky enough, you won’t end up on the bad one.” Lauren looks down at her nails, glancing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “But I’m done with games. I’m on no one’s side but my own. I will see the Phantom Scythe destroyed and this city brought to justice - but don’t you dare think for a second that I am doing this for _you.”_

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” he says, in a flat monotone. 

“Good.” She nods, a curt signal, and they part ways. 

It doesn’t stop him from looking at her as she walks away, though - a distant figure he cannot reach.

  
  


____

“Stop staring at her.”

“I’m not staring, _Williame,_ I’m looking up. To stretch my neck. Occasionally. Paperwork takes up a lot of your time, y’know?” Kym rolls her eyes at the blonde towering above her.

“Sure. Paperwork that you haven’t even started yet.” She lets out a noise of protest as Will reshuffles her paperwork into two piles, gesturing to the numerous files and papers untouched. “Keep your head down and stop _looking, Ladell.”_

Approximately ten seconds of silence stretches between the restless sergeant and the stern lieutenant. Kym throws down her ink pen with a vengeance, gesturing to Lauren in front of them, studiously moving in between two reports at the same time, not making a single noise of complaint, ponytail falling nearly around her shoulders. “She’s so dedicated. The soul hasn’t been sucked out of her yet. Look at her! Like a lumber deer running through the forest, with boundless grace and energy. Sweet, innocent Lauren. Marvel is she, so mysterious and filled to the brim with secrets.”

“Do you even know who you’re talking about?!” Will gestures with clear exasperation in his voice, keeping his volume at a low, shrill whisper. “This woman is not like a deer in the slightest. More like a lion, even. This is my last warning—”

“You’re right. A lion all alone, at a disconnect from the rest of society.”

“So you want to take the lion away from the lions and - _never mind._ Look, we need to give her some space. She needs time to adjust after all she’s been through, even if she won’t say it out loud. It’s her business.”

“True.” Kym’s shoulders sag as she sighs, resting her chin on her fist. “But wouldn’t it be great if she could have friends? Look, hear me out—” She raises her hands, genuine emotion in her eyes. “She needs people, and you know I’m right. She’s former Phantom Scythe,” she adds, seriously. “We could even get some information out of her.”

“We’re only doing that if she agrees. And _that’s_ why you’ve been cozying up to the new archivist too? Are they both lonely?”

“Oh, that’s just because he’s hot,” Kym says, pouting as she bats her lashes.

Will groans. “Why do I feel like part of the reason you want to get close to her is because you think she’s the equivalent of a loose cannon.”

“I _love_ loose cannons.”And with that, Kym storms up to her desk, Will at her heels. “LAUREN!”

_“Gah!”_ She nearly crashes into the wall, rocking back into her chair.

“Sorry, Lauren.” Will shoves her aside with impatience. “See, Kym and I have been talking, and we just think that - well, if you’re up for it - would want to go with us sometime and hang out—”

_“Youseemreallyniceandcoolandprettyandreallyreallyscaryand—”_ Kym inhales deeply. _“Doyouwannagodrinkingwithustonight?”_

The redhead blinks. “Come again?”

Kym taps her fingers together. “Do you wanna go drinking with us tonight? It’ll be only a few!” she insists, waving her hands wildly. “I promise, I promise. Please?”

“I don’t know about that.” Lauren gazes to the side, lips in a thin line. “This is all so sudden…”

Will sighs. “Look, Kym overstepped your boundaries, and pressured you. I’m sorry about that. But,” he says, smiling slightly, “we’re always around if you need us.”

“No.” Lauren frowns. “No, I’ll - I’m free,” she insists, shaking her head. “Where to?”

“In approximately two hours and ten seconds,” says Kym, rattling off the time on the office clock, “we will be liberated. The Peacock Tavern, my treat!” She winks at her, all but concealing her clearly palpable relief at Lauren’s acceptance. “See you there, partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this AU, I wanted Assassins In Love. I have somehow ended up with Assassins In Love + Hey, You! You Get a Plot! + Anguish To The Nth Degree. It was only a kiss. How did it end up like this. (*yells* IT WAS ONLY A KISS! IT WAS ONLY A KISS! NOW I'M FALLING ASLEEP-)
> 
> So far, Scheherazade is going to go up to roughly 1/3 of Season 2 material, and then veer into original plot + Season 3 territory based on my own theories/a finale plus an epilogue. I am sorry but also not sorry for dragging you along for the ride? This fic is still self-indulgence. I swear. I swear. (Can you believe I've been improvising the plot up until now? It shows. To me, at least.) The original material, I think, is starting to show a lot more: the most obvious change is that Belladonna is now a _primary anatagonist._ If you, like...didn't notice before...yeah. Hiss hiss.
> 
> As it is, I'll be adding tags as certain events go on, as well as character tags as certain characters enter the stage (wink wink.) And I know what's on your mind: the ending. Again, no spoilers, but I'm not a believer in grimdark endings at all, usually, so you'll see the ending tag pop up in Chapter 37. However, my plan to update tags by chapter may change if you guys want all the tags at once for reassurance - it's really up to the people here. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of things ahead...there are plenty of fluff moments...and....maybe...more kisses....O_O


	21. showtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s drunk five, Will three, counting the new round of fireballs, and Lauren setting the record with eight. This woman has spent her entire life in a storm, and it shows through her skin when she downs bitter water like sugar. He’s the opposite, if anything. The spectacle is too good for her to not tease him - his tie is slung around his shoulders now, cheeks red, hair in tangled golden waves.
> 
> The jazz band in the corner has started playing, too. Old tunes, from her mother’s day - _Swinging on a Star, Paper Doll, I’ll Walk Alone_ \- and they serve as a perfect backdrop from their arguments. Lauren’s watching them toss insults back and forth until they reach a balle de match. Always one-upping the other. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general vibe I got from last chapter's comments were 'don't hurt my babies, please.' I'm going to say that no, I will still hurt your babies, but on the other hand: you see the new tags? Good. Look at them. Stare at them. 
> 
> *Allstate voice* You're in good hands.

She gets off work an hour early, claiming she has business to do before going to the Peacock Tavern with Kym and Will. It isn’t a lie, not technically - the walk back to her mansion won’t take long, usually. Unlike her former persona, taking up the role of police officer practically guarantees anonymity in Ardhalis City. She wears the white mask on her way back - unlike the others off-duty, she blends in whenever she can. Some still steal odd glances at her; a bit fearful of the weapon in her pocket. 

It’s the royals’ fault for giving the force a slightly marred name over the past few years. As the riots grew worse, so did the police’s tactics. Phillip had given permission for Ardhalis’s so-called protectors to subdue the people’s frustration through any means necessary.

She has seen how a select few poisoned apples poison the barrel. It is no different on the side of... _ good.  _ Sometimes she questions what drives the line between justice and necessity is. Sometimes she questions what the line is between peace and wartime. The latter she is more familiar with than she’d like to be.

“Ah, coming back from an overseas trip?” she hears a seller say to a man in a dark trench.

**“Yes. Just come back from the southern continent.”**

She pays it no heed initially, as she adjusts her mask on tighter.

“In the market for anything specific?”

“Not particularly. Just something that won’t stain.” He lifts a stack of pence in his hand, and that’s when she sees it. The snapdragon pin on the cuff of his shirt. The gloves slightly stained with chemical markings. The scar.

Now she recognizes that voice. Now she knows where he got that pin from. Now she knows who he is.

_ His smile grows wider. “You know, I’ve always wanted to meet a Snapdragon.” _

_ Tim Sake,  _ the records she’d stolen from Viper Territory had read.  _ Co-conspirator in weapons and nitroglycerin imports. Specializes in explosive weaponry. _

Lauren silently weaves through the crowd like water, and when Tim sees the officer headed his way, he nearly crashes into the stall, wood splinters scattering on the floor, as he makes for the high road. She grits her teeth as shocked citizens move aside for him, picking up her pace, vaulting over the stall. A knife sails past his head, striking the brick wall of a nearby shop. In one swift motion, she’s cornering him, tripping him momentarily, then dragging him back onto his feet and slamming him against a wall, holding back his head.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she rasps, voice dark and edged with anger.

“Officer, this is ridiculousness,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Let go of me this instant.”

“Silly me. I forgot my mask.” Lauren unceremoniously removes it, throwing it to the ground. Before he can say a single word, she drags him back to the hidden part of the alley, concealing both of them. His eyes widen as he takes in her appearance: long auburn hair, piercing golden eyes, a promise in the curl of her cruel lip.

Tim Sake laughs again, though this time it’s laced with fear. Good. She likes them to be afraid before she strikes. “Ah. I am terribly sorry. I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of Ardhalis’s revered Scarlet Queen. I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to go rogue and cross over to the enemy side.”

“Is that what they’re saying about me? That I’ve  _ gone rogue?” _

“Among other things, yes.” He holds up his hands, grinning. “No one could find you for months. We were all under the assumption your stand at the Foxglove was your last. But the Viper never believed a word of it.”

“Bella’s smarter than that,” Lauren mutters. “And she was right.  **I’m not on their side, so you needn’t worry about me being a traitor.** But enough about me. I’m curious about you…” She looks down, flicking a finger against his cuff. “And your pin.”

“It’s a snapdragon flower. That interest you that much?”

“I’m a Sinclair,” she says, sneering sharply as she presses him harder against the wall, enough to hurt. “You know our history so well, don’t you? You were in my parent’s car that night.”

“The Sinclairs died in a car accident. Toppled over a cliff.”

“I listened to the recordings,” she spits. “You are going to tell me two things here and now: one, what you were doing in that car the night they died, and two, what Alexander Sinclair has to do with the formation of the Snapdragon.”

“He doesn’t have that sort of information you’re looking for so desperately,” trills a female voice before Sake can speak. Lauren narrows her eyes at a vision in gold and black approaching down the alleyway. “I’ve missed you, Scarlet.”

She arches a brow as Belladonna delicately pries her hand off of Sake, who stumbles back against the wall, adjusting his cap. “You’re supposed to be overseeing operations in Greychapel.”

“My partner was in danger. And I can’t have him dead in an alley if my plans are going to function accordingly.” She smiles in response to Lauren’s visible confusion. “Yes, he is indeed our bombing specialist. Meet the man who’s going to burn Ardhalis down the ground. Irritable, but effective.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Davenport,” Sake spits bitterly. Her teeth grind together as she puts together the puzzle pieces: when Seven was still running his state of operations, Belladonna had been assigned to work with a partner. Tim Sake fits the match, dark past intertwined with her own and all.

What she wouldn’t give to summon Katoptris, now safe at home, and--

“But I’m not just here for him. No, that’d be foolish of me.” Amber eyes bore into her own. “I’ve a proposition you’d like, Scarlet.”

____

  
  


Kym leans back in the creaky wooden chair. “It’s half past ten.”

“She’ll probably be a few minutes late. The snowstorm’s worsening out there,” Will says, gesturing to the southern winds blowing an icy tundra outside the warm tavern walls. In here, it smells like cinnamon and warm cider, worn patterns of feathered peacocks decorating the rim of the high ceilings, clad in slightly yellowing wallpaper, a brass chandelier casting dim light onto the patrons below. The entire pub is bustling with energy, chaotic and loud as ever. They’re still in uniform, but Kym has loosened her tie and taken off her coat in the sweltering heat. Will tries his best not to look as he shrugs off his own coat, startling momentarily as the door opens with a loud ringing of the bell above, letting in one very windswept Lauren, furiously dusting off her coat and hair of snow.

“And there she is, lo and behold, our plus two,” Kym says, catching where he’s looking, going over to take her coat. “You must be  _ freezing.  _ How’d you even get here in this--?” She gestures around. 

“Cars exist, and I can drive,” Lauren says, rubbing at her body a bit. “I wasn’t about to just ditch you two.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I also do not wish for one of my friends to freeze to death while driving,” points out Kym, and Will’s mood improves drastically when Lauren smiles a bit at the mention of  _ friend.  _ “Come on, sit! I’ll get us a round.”

“Not too much, Kym,” he warns. “Remember last year’s holiday party?”

“No.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t go off-the-walls nuts this time around, and induce a migraine in everyone’s heads including mine.” He taps the wood of the table firmly. “Agreed, sergeant?”

“I was going to get cider first. She’s half-frostbitten already. Lighten up,  _ lieutenant,”  _ she tosses back, sticking out her tongue. “You’re joining the fun, too. No exceptions.”

“We have work.” Will’s eyes dart to Lauren, who looks as if she’s going to break into giggles at any second.

“It’s a Friday,” Kym moans.

“I don’t think--”

“Three warm ciders, and then a round of fireballs to start, and if we’re still up to it - sidecars on the rocks,” Lauren rattles off to the waiter, shooting him her best smile. None of them have noticed him taking their orders - well, hers - on the side. Kym grins maniacally. 

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“I have experience,” she says, shrugging mildly. “And for the record, Will, I don’t think you want to be sober when the shots arrive.”

“We’ll do two sidecars,” he calls hoarsely, spotting the wicked gleam in her eye.  _ “Bonus ice!” _

____

She knows Will is a lightweight. That much she can tell from the way he winces after he straight-up downs the fireball whisky shot. Kym doesn’t even react, and the liquor travels down her own throat easily. 

She has also predicted that no, he wouldn’t want to be Sober Will around Drunk Kym and Lauren.

“So - so - lemme get this straight - you know  _ seventy five ways to kill a man?” _

“Seventy six,” Lauren corrects her with a grin. “The last one involves salad tongs.”

“Has anyone ever...y’know...actually…” Kym touches her two index fingers together. Her navy hair is slightly tousled, and her smirk only grows wider as Will remains silent while the two of them chatter. He keeps looking at his subordinate, hoping she won’t catch on. What a moron. 

“I haven’t had to use salad tongs, yet, but I did use a fork and arsenic at one point. Oh, and there was this cafe incident three years back, and I really really wanted to use the china plate on him,  _ you should’ve seen it,  _ really--”

“Do you think,” he croaks out hoarsely, “discussing murder is an appropriate conversation topic?”

“When it’s interesting,” she shoots back. “Anyhow, Kym, he was an awful date.”

“I don’t think you should kill people.” Kym hiccups lightly. “But out of curiosity, what was his name again?”

“I don’t even remember, and don’t go looking for a target unless you have all the steps charted out.” Lauren gestures to her, splashing a bit of liquid on the table as she holds up another shot. “I am not definitely implying you should go after your enemies with fire and rain, I am just saying that should you choose to do so, you should plan, and then--”

_ “Lauren Sinclair,”  _ exclaims Will, very loudly into his hands. “Stop giving her ideas.”

“You’re a lightweight,” she fires, tipping back a shot. His cheeks are too flushed for only one shot. “And we’re officers of the law.”

**“I’m not a lightweight.”**

Kym and her look at each other. It is approximately awkwardly silent for five seconds before both of them burst into laughter. The sergeant clutches at her ribs, shaking, and Lauren’s already half out of her seat, and when she tugs Will forward, his eyes widen in surprise.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, wiggling her finger, “because I can tell. You can’t handle your liquor.”

“Loser,” agrees Kym, shaking her head vigorously.

“You’re both--”

“Alright, alright, fine,  _ Will.  _ If you say so,” Kym trills, a sly grin on her face, “then prove it. Three left,” she says, gesturing to the row of shots on the table. “Come on. If you beat me, I’ll come in early on Monday.”

“You never come in early.” A vein pops in his forehead.

“Exactly.” She leans forward, closer enough for him to lean back in his seat. Lauren sips at her drink, smiling beneath the glass. Tonight, she’s going to have to get their trust. Let her own restraints loose. But it won’t be the only main event of the night from the way these two are acting. 

“Well? For old times’ sake?”

Will scowls. “Fine.”

____

She’s lost count.

So far, she’s drunk five, Will three, counting the new round of fireballs, and Lauren setting the record with eight. This woman has spent her entire life in a storm, and it shows through her skin when she downs bitter water like sugar. He’s the opposite, if anything. The spectacle is too good for her to  _ not _ tease him - his tie is slung around his shoulders now, cheeks red, hair in tangled golden waves.

The jazz band in the corner has started playing, too. Old tunes, from her mother’s day -  _ Swinging on a Star, Paper Doll, I’ll Walk Alone -  _ and they serve as a perfect backdrop from their arguments. Lauren’s watching them toss insults back and forth until they reach a  _ balle de match.  _ Always one-upping the other. Always.

“You suck,” she grumbles, the words slurred around her tongue, heavy in her mouth.

“You suck more,” he retorts, voice sharp and sweet. “It’s what - the second round, already? Give it up, Kym.”

“Never.” She nearly smacks her face into his, their noses touching. Coffee. He still smells like coffee grinds in the morning, and fresh ink, that workplace scent. Her lashes flutter. “Do you use cologne?”

“What?”

A saxophone croons. This song. This song she knows, and she knows the tavern knows it too, because she can hear the melody in her ears, hummed by a gaggle of patrons, a couple to her right. Familiar like old bones, familiar like home, familiar like--

_ “Blue.” _

“I--”

_ “Blue,”  _ she shouts, the song slightly rusty in her throat, but as she warms up her vocals, finds the harmony easy as ever,  _ “I know where I left my heart, in the blue.  _ Admit defeat, Will.”

He frowns at her. “You’re unsteady.”

“No, you are, and none of us have won yet.” She holds a fist to her mouth, waving her hands to catch the attention of the jazz band. Will gapes in exasperation as she leaps onto the bar counter, startling some patrons. Lauren’s head is in her hands, and she’s grinning wildly at the show about to go down. “Oi! If you wouldn’t mind requests -  _ E MINOR!” _

_ “No.” _

____

“It’ll be fine, Will.”

_ “No,”  _ he groans into his hands. “This is just like last year’s holiday party.”

“I think you and her are remembering the holiday party very differently,” Lauren says, in an attempt to be comforting, but it falls flat. His head shoots up as the band wordlessly plays the first note on the piano. Somehow, Kym has stolen a black jacket, tophat, and cane, spinning around on the marble bartop as fascinated tavern-goers watch.

_ “Crimson as a wine-stained sea, that’s the color of Beltone far and wide,”  _ she sings. Will has to admit she’s got a lovely voice, deepened by late night and drink both; a rich and dark baritone.  _ “Gold as the fields yonder and near, the hue of that old Beaubonne countryside. I admire the green of my sweetheart’s eyes within old Orseau, I see nothing but beauty in Seltel’s violet glow.” _

The crowd is cheering now. Will can do nothing but stare as the lights dim, casting a halo of gold around her face. 

_ “But I’ve got a heart that seeks out a home,”  _ she belts, pointing the cane right at him. Lauren shoves him unceremoniously forward, waving with glee as he stumbles out of his chair.  _ “I’ve got a heart that looks for those like my own.” _

Closer, closer. There are gold specks in her eyes. He’s never looked this close, nor this long.

_ “And I know that no matter where I go, I’ll always seek out the one place I can never say adieu…”  _ She lifts his chin up with a finger, and her mouth twitches up as she nods towards the band.

_ “Hit it!” _

The song immediately transforms from a ballad into a smooth, fast-paced swing dance. This is new. And the change is welcome, as the loud shouts and clamor seem to signal. Kym pulls him forward, tossing her hat onto his head.

“Well?” She cocks her hip. “Going to disappoint?”

Never.

_ “I left my heart in the old Ardhalis blue,”  _ Will sings, improvising the lyrics to fit the new beat as fast as he can. It comes like second nature, given his musician background, and the shock on Kym’s face is a wonder of wonders.  _ “It’s sad to say, but it’s true, I left my heart there with you.” _

She haughtily tips her chin up as she backs him up onto the bartop, shoes clacking on hard marble.  _ “It’s a miracle come true, my heart belongs to you.” _

_ “And where they ask where home is, tried and true, far from the hues of midnight sun and moon--” _

_ “I’ll tell them what I know--” _

_ “I’ll tell them what I know,”  _ choruses Kym, their voices matching each other beat by beat, a harmony of light and dark, fitting together despite everything,  _ “about that old Ardhalis blue.” _

_ “The color never fades, it never dries, never dies. I don’t know when we’ll meet again, darling, but I do know we’ll meet by the ocean azure--” _

_ “By those far-out cliffs of the coast--” _

_ “And where the sand meets the sea, that’s where you’ll find me!”  _ Kym belts out. 

_ “They say that nothing compares to those crimson sights, those golden nights, but I know the truth,”  _ he sings as the song grows softer, gradually. It may just be his imagination, but the lights have dimmed further, leaving them as the two only bright spots in an otherwise darkened tavern.  _ “Those violet delights, the green beyond. I’ll tell them what I know, that I…” _

_ “I’ll tell them what I know, that I--!”  _ She twirls with the carefree nature of a child, and somehow, Will catches her, spinning her around. There is nothing but them in this moment, the look in her eyes mirroring his own: wild and focused on only each other. It is no longer a competition. It is a duet.

_ “--left my heart,”  _ together, their voices blend as one, as the band croons out the final note,  _ “in that old Ardhalis blue.” _

She falls like a star, and he lifts her up just before she can collide with the bartop, dipping her with one arm out. The lights slam on again, and the tavern goes wild with applause as they stay there, frozen in time, looking at each other with untapered glee.

He’d give anything to have her look at him like this forever.

Or maybe--

_ You refused my bountiful friendship. _

_ Oh, it’s you.  _ The tug of a trigger, the familiar curve of a smirk.

_ Oh.  _ Him on the floor, her on top of him, framed by sunlight.  _ It’s you. _

_ “Oh,”  _ he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Don’t trip on me,” he says, changing the subject at the speed of light as he lifts her back up, both of them standing awkwardly apart from each other as soon as they can stand. Will hops back down onto the floor, Kym second, eyes darting everywhere and looking everywhere but at him.

“So, I’m pretty sure I won--”

_ “Encore!”  _ whoops a very, very wasted Lauren Sinclair, who proceeds to then topple out of her chair and fall face-flat onto the floor.

____

_ “Would you like to swing home on a star, carry moonbeams on a jar…” _

“You have a terrible voice, Lauren,” Will says, wincing as she stumbles in his arm, a giddy look on her face. The snow has long faded, and he walks down the streets of the 11th precinct, taking care to not step on any patches of ice. “Please - and I say this for the sake of all our heads -  _ never sing again.” _

“He’s right, for once,” Kym says in the other arm, kicking her feet around. “You really shouldn’t sing. Unless there’s a nearby criminal around. Then you can drive them off with the power of your hideous voice.”

“You’re being mean,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “And stop carrying me, Will.”

“I have to carry both of you, because the last time I set you down on Amity Street, you nearly toppled into a trash can, and Kym went chasing after racoons.”

_ “That’s not fair--” _

_ “I can take care of myself, you’re being mean--!” _

“Women,” he mutters under his breath, seconds away from getting another migraine. 

“Couldn’t you have taken my car?” Lauren whines. “It’s freezing.”

“We’re all drunk, and I’m the least, which is why I’m taking you home and telling your uncle about it. Kym first, because she’s closer, and who hopefully won’t go chasing after--”

“We get it,” Kym hacks out, wiggling in his grip. She meets his eyes for a second, and he nods towards Lauren to dispel any tension between them - to take their minds off the tavern wordlessly. Thankfully, the taller woman has fallen asleep in Will’s right arm.

“I don’t think she’s a threat, Will.”

“We should still be careful.” But he hesitates. “For now, though, we’ll consider her an actual ally. That could change, but...I don’t want it to. She was my friend.” Silence passes between them, uneasy. “I don’t want her to be an enemy.”

“What we want and what we have are two different things,” Kym murmurs against his chest. “If only.”

“I -- Kym?”

Snoring. 

Will sighs, and musters the last of his strength as he hauls them down the street.

____

  
  


He and Kym part ways not long after a light snow passes, urging her to get rest over the weekend. It had been a hard task, getting her into her house and down the hallway to her room, but she’d insisted on walking herself. Which left no one but Lauren, who had remained asleep until now. Tristan knew him well, and so he came into Sinclair Manor easily, taking her up to her room. She’s light in his arms, but almost frighteningly strong, her hair falling down her shoulders like curtains of crimson. 

For some reason, the night reminds him of how they met. It had been nothing special; their parents had known each other well, and through a series of parties and stuffy dinners, they began to become friends.

If he’s being truly honest with himself tonight, old memories bring up old feelings.

But he doesn’t need heartache and conflict to coincide with his problems in real life. Not now. Which is why he makes to leave after setting her down on the bed, but Lauren snakes a hand around his wrist before he can go.

“Thanks,” she slurs out, her eyes half-open. Glassy champagne. “I mean it.”

“Anytime,” Will says as gently as he can, sweeping aside a lock of her hair, but only briefly. She doesn’t let him leave immediately, though, keeping him there while she struggles into a sitting position, rubbing at her head. 

“Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like if it had only been you,” she murmurs.

Will frowns. “Lauren…” 

“You can ask, you know.” His old friend has never been one for trickery or verbose grandeur. “About what happened. I can see it in your eyes. The questions.  _ What happened to the person I used to know?” _

“We all change.”

“Some of us for the worse,” she says, oddly bitterly. “The Phantom Scythe wasn’t kind to me.”

_ We could get information out of her.  _ And tonight might not be the best night, but he and Kym had agreed. “I--”

“I’ll tell you. Eventually.” She hugs her knees to her chest. It’s strange seeing her vulnerable like this. Even as a young girl, she’d never been like this with him. “I was just thinking about other paths. Other roads. How I could’ve turned out if I hadn’t…” Lauren inhales sharply. “In another life, I suppose.”

The double meaning is clear in how she looks at him. 

He’d loved her, once. A version of her. But memories are nothing but memories, and the past is not the present, no matter how much it clings to you like grief does, everlasting, making you claw and long and hope for once was; a history that will never come back. All you can do is let go.

So he does.

“In another life,” he concedes, echoing her smile. “Sleep well, Lauren.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References. Hoo boy. Buckle up. 
> 
> (I have no knowledge of alcohol; I never plan on drinking, and therefore we will not be wasting time on liquor references. DRINK RESPONSIBLY, KIDS!)
> 
>  _Swinging on a Star, Paper Doll,_ and _I’ll Walk Alone_ are all real, very popular 1940s ballads. The lyrics Lauren sings (badly) in the second to last scene are from Frank Sinatra's rendition of _Swinging on a Star._
> 
>  _Balle de match_ literally translates to 'match-point' in tennis - when the player in the lead scores.
> 
> Several lyrics in _Left My Heart In the Old Ardhalis Blue_ are inspired from Vera Lynn's _The White Cliffs of Dover._ Vera Lynn was a popular wartime ballad singer.
> 
> And lastly...not references, but footnotes of a sort: no, Will is no longer in love with Lauren. I believe he had one-sided unrequited feelings for her at some point, and still does in canon, but his feelings for Kym are much, much, MUCH stronger. I detest love triangles, and the 'in another life' section comes from instead, I think, the much angstier potential of 'what could've been' relationship two people could've had in...well, another life. In conclusion: non-endgame unrequited Hawkeclair is a go.


	22. proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s tragic in the grand scheme of things. This is not what justice, true justice - the thing she’d once sought out the most - accepts as a right. This is not what her parents would have wanted. This is not what those she tries so hard not to love want. In that moment, they all look on, as tragedy unfolds at the center of a silent sea. 
> 
> But selfishness - the altar that she has spent her entire life sacrificing to - lives on. And when the battle starts - it consumes every last bit of her with _glee._

There’s no way around it. Lauren spins the pen in her hands over and over again as she ponders the encounter in the alleyway last Friday. She’d had answers in her grasp, so close - and had let them slip away again. But even if she had gained some sort of information on Sake, Belladonna hadn’t been lying about her getting the answers she _wanted._ Answers she has been hungering after for ten years, answers she has sought for through moon-spun forests and dark tavern closets. 

Which is why it frustrates her that the viper has essentially led her into a trap without end. Her skills have allowed her to think through numerous puzzles and situations over the years - but Belladonna and her have been raised the same. Trained the same. To wriggle out of her open-mouthed fangs will be a feat unlike any other - to strike a deal with a girl of poison will be deadly.

But there’s no way around it.

_“You’re investigating the Snapdragon?”_

_“It’s none of your business, frankly,” she said with as much coldness as she could muster. “I haven’t intruded in_ your _business at all, Belladonna. You plotted an insurgency for three years and I’ve hardly said a word.”_

_“Well.” There was a cruel glint in her eyes. “We all have our secrets. Perhaps I have been a little too...hypocritical, hm?”_

_“A little?” Lauren demanded, astonished. “Whatever. What exactly are you proposing?”_

_“Simple, really. I’ve known you all my life, and seeing as circumstances are what they are, you’re my next best option for a fourth player in Viper Territory. I need a strategist on my team. And a fighter. You excel in both categories, particularly the latter. You wouldn’t be alone in your efforts, either. I’ve made sure to hang on to some - well, old friends.”_

_“The fourth player in your little game of anarchy,” she repeated slowly. “Who are the other two?”_

_“You’re familiar with Athena, the ringmaster of Circus Royale. As well as your old protegee.”_

_If Belladonna noticed the sudden uptake in her breathing, she didn’t say anything about it. “Interesting choice of accomplices.”_

_“I have preferences. And if you joined, I wouldn’t expect complete subservience. You do have your job, after all,” she trilled. “But you have an agenda. Even the blind could see that. You’d be able to gather information from both sides - something you weren’t able to do before, or at least not as efficiently. Correct?”_

_“How exactly is ‘blow up Ardhalis before the Leader does’ conducive to my plans?”_

_“If you were under my protection, let’s just say the Leader and the remaining Apostles wouldn’t set a finger on their little rogue,” Belladonna said, coming closer. Her voice was steady and sharp - the viper had no need for anger, not in the way that Lauren had whittled it down to a weapon. “And you know Sake. I know his accomplices. You could wrap up your little investigation in months with the pieces handed to you on a platter. Those are the facts, Scarlet.”_

_She knew Belladonna had another plan. She always did._

_When Lauren spoke next, Belladonna’s answering smile was no surprise to her - as if she’d anticipated it all along._

_“I’ll have your answer when we next meet at the Carmine Carmellia.”_

Lauren slams the pen down onto her desk, looking around quickly for signs of any approaching officers, or Kym and Will. Quick as a flash, she darts out the main office, shrugging on her jacket and letting her hair spiral down her shoulders. She doesn’t need to know where the archives are - knowing the late time of day, Kieran’s probably left his own workplace already.

The lockers are bare, with the exception of a lone coat or lost cap lying around somewhere, probably from the IU. Kieran is framed in grainy light coming in from the windows, searching through his own, ribbon slightly undone. A bag lies next to him on a bench - she doesn’t bother to ask what’s in it. She fears what’s in it.

Interesting, how they used to tell each other everything.

“We need to talk,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. He whirls around, and for a split second, relief coats his features, but it fades away, replaced by a false smile and an attempt at casualness. She can tell when he’s pretending; his mouth is contorted into something familiar-looking to the grins he casts on his enemies, and his posture is much too tense to actually suggest that he’s at ease. 

“Missed me so soon? It hasn’t even been a day.”

Lauren narrows her eyes. “I said _we need to talk.”_

And just like that, he drops his facade. It’s foolish to pretend in front of the one person who knows you best. “What is it?”

“Just come,” she says, coldly gesturing behind her. “We can’t risk getting seen together in the office. Follow me.”

She doesn’t bother checking if he’s left the locker room alongside her, but as she buttons up her coat, she can detect a pair of heavy footsteps behind her, tentative, even. More silent than hers - she’s adjusted her step to be heard when she can: both of them treading carpet like cats would raise suspicion in the police station immediately. The weather outside is more foggy than anything, still bleaching the city white from last week’s storm.

None of them notice Will peering down at them from the window above, frowning slightly.

____

Lauren won’t even look at him for more than two seconds. It’s nothing short of his fault, but it still hurts altogether. He wonders if she remembers what he does; a walk through the darker parts of their past. Grabbing her from behind, syringe in one hand - but he manages to shake it off, buries it six feet under, as he removes his glasses and tucks them into his pocket. In the gas-lit light, her golden eyes are a predator’s as she leads them into an alleyway, near one of the sewers.

“Is this the part where you finally kill me and get rid of the one thing that irks you the most?” he asks. Kieran immediately regrets saying anything as her features contort into anger and hurt. It’s bitter and self-pitying, but it’s nothing short of the truth. Her hands keep flying to her weapons belt.

But she doesn’t raise a blade, or a barrel to his head. Instead, she simply grabs his arm, shoving him into the archway. 

“No,” she bites out, fists clenched. “And I don’t plan on killing anyone, not yet.”

“What a relief.”

“Says the other assassin,” Lauren throws back. Her hair slides over her right shoulder, and Kieran looks away from the curve of her bare neck. There are no injuries on it - and yet, looking at it is like being burned alive. 

Somehow, she’s managed to school her temper. He should be grateful for that much, at least.

“Belladonna...has offered me a proposition.” She inhales sharply at the mention of the name, clearly at war with whatever the viper has told her. “I’m suspecting she’s either getting desperate to beat the Leader at his own game, or is close to. Which means time is running out for both of us. If they think we’re on their side still, we don’t have that many months to take down the Phantom Scythe while they still think we’re double-agenting for them.”

And there it is. “‘We’? So you do wish to work with me, after all.”

“I really don’t know how I put up with the most self-absorbed, conceited person in the world all these years,” Lauren drawls. He recoils a bit, and she seems to draw satisfaction from hurting him where it hits the most, standing slightly straighter. “You’re just begging at this point, aren’t you?”

Kieran coughs lightly. “So she wants you on her team, then? It wouldn’t be impossible - well, it would be incredibly difficult, but nevertheless - to manipulate her into dialing back her plans for Ardhalis and taking down the Leader first.”

He’s let too much sarcasm slip. “If we strike at the heart, we still have the organs left,” she says, looking up in exasperation. “You and I need to take down both sides.”

“I’ve already begun with Soleil,” he concedes. “My old contact has started searching for bodies I can turn in. And I know others who can forge identities. You’d have to keep playing your long game, as you suggested earlier. Gaining Belladonna’s trust will be no small feat. If she’s offered you something you want - which I suspect she has - you’d need to seem submissive. And you and I know you’re nothing but.”

“She doesn’t need my trust,” Lauren says bitterly. “Which is why I can’t figure out why she’d risk a traitor in her ranks.” Her hands go up to cup her face, and in another scenario, this would be the part where he’d reassure her, and comfort her with promises and other such things.

Wondrous, really, how much can change in a month or so.

“We need a plan. A solid one. After Soleil is ‘taken out,’ the Leader’s most likely going to order me to weaken Viper Territory’s forces as well as royal connections. Belladonna will be targeting the opposite side. Perhaps even the High Council as well.”

“Then I have no choice but to get inside into _her plans.”_ Lauren sighs. “She has a partner on her side. A bombing expert. I can start with him. The Carmine Carmellia meeting is this Friday. I’d promised her an answer by then, and most likely he’ll be there as well.”

“You were always good at getting into people’s heads,” he concedes. Thankfully, she doesn’t stab his ribs, but instead acknowledges this with a small nod. But the unspoken truth still gravitates between then; weighs them down. _We would do better together as a team. As partners._

“That’s that, I suppose.” Lauren brushes against his shoulder as she walks past him, but before she can leave, he calls her back.

“I--”

_“What?”_

He searches desperately for the right words. “...Are you safe?”

She catches on to his meaning. But when she next speaks, turning slightly his way, her eyes clearly signal that he has no choice but to _back off._ “My uncle found me. That’s all you need to know. Nothing more. We have nothing else to say to each other.”

And in minutes, she’s gone.

____

  
  
  


Night shows up in multiple forms throughout Ardhalis. In the upper-class neighborhoods, it comes in the form of a welcoming friend, easing blackened waves over the sky, illuminated by beacons and gold like electric pinpricks in a sea of mansion complexes. In the lower-class neighborhoods, night means fear, bringing with it the monsters of the unknown and the criminals known to stalk Ardhalis, bloodhounds chasing after the scent of flowers and sawdust. By the sea, perched by the docks that take in ships and send them out daily, it covers the scent of ocean water and turns pellucid waves into a mirror reflection of the inky galaxy above.

Lauren knows this time of day well. There is no full moon tonight; only a sliver of a crescent left to light up the sky. But there is no time to take in the sights.

_“There has been a murder on Baker Street - I repeat, Baker Street, on the corner of the 11th precinct--”_

Putting on the uniform has, strangely, become second nature. The shirt and the overcoat tucked into dull slacks and boots, tie loose. She slams the telephone back in its place as she tucks the gun into her holster - and hesitates. Lauren turns around, hair spilling over her shoulders, as something familiar glints up at her from the dressing drawer.

____

It’s a relatively common crime scene this time around. Nothing special; a gang of men had decided to break in and steal what wasn’t theirs, leaving casualties in the dust. Kym and Will are pleased that she’s adjusted so well to law enforcement - enough that they beg her to stay when the IU comes and investigates the crime. Another team is already pursuing, and a former assassin might be recognized around these parts. But as always, she doesn’t listen.

This time it is not on impulse, however. This time it is different.

She recognizes the modus operandi pattern - their weapons had left traces of poison behind. Lower-class than golden viper venom, but only one woman outfits her followers with makeshift fangs. So harmlessly-seeming on the outside that the IU won’t be able to detect it on its radars. This is a warning sign to her if she does not comply.

Here’s the thing, see - she has always been a pawn in the grander scheme of things, and even when she was on top of the world, even her position had strings. And it alarms her, the threat - it chokes her now, will make an example of her, the bullet at her temple, the blade perched at her windpipe. Both sides out for her, and when they get their fill, intend on scorching her alive in streams of scarlet and gold.

She’s never been good with panic. So she edges her hands with it, and holds fast to adrenaline, her old friend and enemy, as she races down Baker Street. The police team is already in pursuit, and when she turns a corner, peeking out behind a wall, finds them angrily discussing amongst themselves where the men could’ve gone. It confirms Lauren’s suspicions - they’ve most likely taken the underground sewers meant for Messengers only. She hitches one foot onto the drain pipe winding up an apartment building, and like a spider, crawls up to the rooftops, eyes out for the docks. A light trail of smoke pools from a warehouse far from here. 

None of the officers below notice one of their own leaping from roof to roof above them, an ethereal blur in the night.

Perhaps training until dawn hours has done her some good in the long run, despite the scars. The docks take only ten minutes to reach instead of half an hour, and by the time she arrives, having rendered a dock guard unconscious with a fist to the head, her blood pounds a rhythm in her ears, a fierce song of war. She couldn’t quell her anger if she tried, even - she doesn’t know what’s set it off tonight; perhaps it’s the time of night, or the fact that Belladonna’s tactics are more annoying than anything, or perhaps it’s that she literally has all she’s ever needed and yet is within arm’s reach forever of the one thing she wants the most.

So she gets caught on purpose. When they see her, they begin to gather together in numbers. There are more here - a blend of faces she doesn’t bother to comprehend. 

The man points his knife directly at her. “You’re not welcome in Viper Territory, _cop.”_ He spits the last word with a vengeance. “The Golden Viper herself doesn’t take nicely to intruders.”

“And I suppose you’re her underlings?” Lauren sighs, rolling her eyes. “Typical Bella. Always one step ahead.”

“Come again?!”

She laughs mirthlessly in response, shrugging off her coat and throwing it to the side. Lauren doesn’t need to look up to see their stunned expressions as she frees Katoptris from the halter on her back, twirling it around, gripping it firmly in her right hand. 

“One,” she says, holding up a finger, “I’m no cop. Two--” Lauren points the sword at all of them. “Get out of my way.”

A piercing whistle rings through the air. Before she can react, men are streaming from the dockyards, surrounding her. About fifty in a circle around her, armed with various weapons. Resistance would be futile for anyone else. But she’s not anyone else. 

“This is your last warning!” 

When Lauren doesn’t respond, a crossbow bolt whirls through the air. In one swift motion, she twists on one foot and slams her blade into the bolt mid-air, carving it in half. Several of Belladonna’s hires stumble back as she drops back into fighting position, one arm extended. It feels good to be back in the fight. It feels _right._

“Well?!” the man who’d insulted her before roars. _“Get her!”_

And they attack.

This, she knows. It’s in her muscle memory. How to twirl, kick, parry, dodge. 

In that moment, her ghosts stay with her and they do not _leave._

She snaps. There’s no other word for it. And it’s tragic in the grand scheme of things. This is not what justice, true justice - the thing she’d once sought out the most - accepts as a right. This is not what her parents would have wanted. This is not what those she tries so hard not to love want. In that moment, they all look on, as tragedy unfolds at the center of a silent sea. 

But selfishness - the altar that she has spent her entire life sacrificing to - lives on. And when the battle starts - it consumes every last bit of her with _glee._

____

_You selfish hypocrite._

Lauren rams the back of her shortsword into a man’s head. Another comes in just as quickly, swinging a knife wildly. She twists his arm behind his back, kicking at his ribs, disposing of him as easily as she would a fly on pavement. A blow to the back momentarily makes her fall to the ground, but she rolls over before a claymore can strike into her flesh. She raises herself back up on her hands, kicking out. He doesn’t expect his head to get caught between her feet, and she rolls mid-air, feeling him go down without a fight.

She lets out a guttural scream as three surround her from all sides, levitating cruel gold in the air.

_You have claimed to want justice all these years,_ her own voice hisses back at her. _And for what, hypocrite?_

Katoptris swings in a large arc, rewarding her with the sound of more fallen bodies and warning signs from the remaining men.

Lauren drops into a low crouch, sword parallel to her back.

_That isn’t it, is it. Because after all these years--_

They still dare to attack.

_\--you’ve only ever wanted revenge._

Bullets fly. She backflips, treading air as she lands on her tiptoes, once, twice, like a dancer on a stage. It is winter and she is _burning_ with the heat of her emotions, running with one arm outstretched as she twists the gunman’s arm behind his back, firing his weapon once, twice, five times, then cutting into his weapon. There are only ten left - she takes the first two out easily, aiming for a high kick that knocks them out. A whip slides around her wrist, and she’s tugged forward, but she slashes into the cord, winding around her hand, pulling forward. She drops Katoptris out of her hand, and it lands in her left. 

The next seven pass in a blur of red. Perhaps it’s why she leaves the last man a small window of escape. But he does nothing but crawl backwards as she advances. He’s shivering, hair falling over his face, clearly scared out of his mind.

It doesn’t register to her.

“Who--” he whispers through chattering teeth, “whose side are you on?”

Lauren looks down at her clothes. They’re perfectly intact, save for the minor scrape of dust staining fabric. A mundane officer uniform. Crimson trickles down her hands, and the only visible red on her person is a small splatter across her cheek.

She’s been more careful this time.

“No one’s,” she murmurs, voice a lone lullaby in the night, a sly grin decorating her face as she slams her sword down.

____

  
  


“I told you not to underestimate her,” the Golden Viper hisses later that same night, gesturing to the message carved on the side of one of the dock ships.

_PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE._

_-S_

____

Kieran unlocks the door to his studio. Familiar sights greet him like an embrace - the after scent of charcoal, the fluttering of papers tapered to walls in wide bunches. It takes a while for him to get the lamp to work, but when it finally twists, gold spills over the desk, illuminating a half-finished drawing of a sergeant and her lieutenant. He smiles as he adds the last details to it; the curve of a smile, the curl of Will’s hair, Kym’s finger almost prodding his chest - but not quite. 

Every picture in here is a snapshot, a memory. Orphans in Greychapel. Passengers on a train. Florists selling bouquets on the street. Even the oldest ones - of long-forgotten childhoods - remain in the back: Belladonna with a knife in her hands, Lauren in the garden.

Lauren when she’d first grown out her hair after cutting it herself, the two of them in the cave, that night in the compound where they’d fought, blade to blade--

He sweeps aside the drawing and begins to sketch. It spills out of him, the memory, and he almost reaches for his paints and inks this time, to give color to her hair, her skin. What emerges this time is not a memory, but something more abstract - the red-haired woman emerging from the sea, the moon behind her, illuminating her in swaths of white. 

Something he cannot reach, not yet.

But he had, hadn’t he? He’d had it all, and then thrown it away.

With a loud sigh, Kieran crumples the paper in his hands and throws it in the wastebin.

He still can’t get her right.

____

Lizbeth receives a knock on her private quarters at six in the morning. 

“Come in.” She twirls her dark blonde hair into a chignon just as Dakan walks in, the guards at her door holding them open. Her earrings lie on the vanity; the crown too - her usual nightwear is composed of a much less frilly high-necked periwinkle gown. 

“Good morning, my queen.” He looks astonishingly worried. It shows in his face - he’s grown out facial hair, something he hasn’t done in years.

“Dakan.” Lizbeth stands suddenly, tipping her head up as he bows to her. “I didn’t expect you so early. Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly. Thankfully, I’ve no bad news this time around. I wanted to discuss something with you instead. I’m rather concerned about Philip.” Somehow, his eyes avoid hers at this point, the turquoise in them dim despite the sun coming in.

“You know him well. Is something wrong with him?”

“It’s not so much as what’s wrong with him as what he causes to go wrong. I fear the Phantom Scythe has been growing in power lately, more than it has in the past, and he is being...for a lack of a better word, compassionate.”

She tenses at this. What Dakan is suggesting is clear, despite his polite tone of voice. Without a word, she walks out the doors, him at her heels, out of sight from the guards. Her upbringing has taught her to walk with the weight of the world on her shoulders - not below it. “You and I both know compassion is his strength. It was not Edward’s.”

He dips his head a bit. “I was hardly implying any weakness of the sort, my queen.”

“Then?”

“Then…” Dakan hesitates to speak further. “It is simply a matter of what must be done. We cannot allow them to continue a scourge on the land. I want a better future for those I love. As do you.”

Blonde hair and a childish smile flash before her eyes. “Arthur is young.”

“He deserves safety. And so do the ones I care for.” This, at least, he seems to be honest about. 

“I want to know exactly what you’re planning to do, Dakan.” Lizbeth regards him ambivalently. “Your proposals have not gone through in the past year.”

“I’ll take it up with Philip privately. I only wanted your opinion on this.” A thick sheaf of paper is unfurled from his pocket, and he places it in her hands.

She stares down at the unraveled proposal for a long, long time.

When she looks back up at him, her eyes are frigid blue. “You’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve always considered you an ally. Please, my queen. I only need your assistance to get this to work.”

“Do not overstep your boundaries, Advisor,” she states coldly. Immediately, he shrinks back in posture, a hand over his heart, bending at the knee as per traditional form.

“My apologies.” 

She hesitates then. She doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t leave immediately. And when she does, she stands in the middle of the hallway, not really reading the words on paper.

His voice is soft when he next speaks.

“...Liz, please.”

Lizbeth clenches her jaw. They’ve always seen eye to eye. Worked together well as friends, allies, even. But she has always been in another world separate from his, and it must - it _will_ \- remain that way. “You will refer to me as Your Majesty or ‘my queen.’ Is that clear?” 

“Yes, my queen.”

She doesn’t look back as the doors shut to her chambers, signaling the start of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter...is one of the most self-indulgent chapters I've ever written. Lauki kissing? Self-indulgent. Kywi tension? Self-indulgent. Assassin Lauren? Self-indulgent. Double-crosser but-not-really 'Officer' Lauren Sinclair taking names and swinging around a sword?
> 
> S E L F - I N D U L G E N C E
> 
> Anywhooo. Please look at the new summary for this fic! I cried a lot, because this line is going to come up in the future, and...augh.
> 
> As for the obvious elephant in the room, Dakan/Lizbeth is...well, a thing. I didn't expect not one, but TWO forbidden love relationships to show up, but hey - it makes for good narrative drama. Technically, they aren't forbidden lovers at all, since they've never acted on their feelings, and have such a complicated relationship that it rivals that of a Shakespearean tragedy, but whatever. I should note that their relationship is inspired by the infamous tale of Lancelot and Guinevere, specifically in the Thomas Malory depiction of them in the popular _Le Morte d'Arthur,_ in which their forbidden love brings about the downfall of Arthur - and subsequently - Camelot. As for Liz and Dakan's actual history together - I leave it up to the reader for interpretation.


	23. wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belladonna’s lips curve into a rouged, wide smirk. “I see.” She inspects her flawlessly-cut nails, her earrings shining under the salmon-tinted light. “Is this love, Scarlet?”
> 
> Her jaw clenches. “Love is for fools. I owe my partner a debt.”

The archives are a mess, and frankly, this bothers Kieran more than it should, acting as the false archivist he is. The files aren’t even in alphabetical order - he scoffs as he unloads the entire A section, marvelling at the disarray of papers that fall into his hands. Wood couldn’t have done a better job before he left? 

Someone enters the archives, closing the door behind them. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is, grabbing a file from the nearest shelf and flipping it open, leaning against the metallic cases with a false air of ease. She crosses into his vision at the corner of his eye, a warped figure coming into focus at the edge of his glasses, and Kieran takes this as his cue to look up and lock eyes with a disgruntled Lauren, hair in a tight ponytail and with a grimace that rivals that of one who’s consumed an entire lemon.

“Oh.” Her voice is nothing short of dismay. “You’re here.”

He shrugs, closing the file. “Well, I do work here, _officer._ Haven’t we been over this already?”

She sighs. “Whatever. Just don’t bother me. I came down here to do research.”

“Familiar with the archives, are you?” Kieran tips his spectacles up as she paces down the aisles, not pausing until she reaches the back corner, fingers trailing several case files. “You know, if you told me what you were looking for, I could help you.”

“I know what I’m looking for. And yes - in a way - I’m familiar. Just stop talking.” The brusque comment is a clear command to shut him up, and it works. He dares sneak a peek over his shoulder - she seems to be doing research on some sort of cold case involving toxins - and turns back to his work. Not soon after, though, he hears a metallic rattling noise behind him, and frowns as he watches her tug at the closet labeled _EQUIPMENT._

Kieran can’t help but grin. “Did you try kicking it open yet?”

She glares at him. “The IU’s resources are in here, yes? Recording equipment?”

“Would I like to know what you’re doing with recording equipment?” he asks, walking over to her despite his best judgement, hands on his hips. “And you need an access code to get in there.”

“Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s none of your business--”

The lights flicker. And before Kieran can respond, they power down with a loud whirring noise, leaving them in darkness. He can hear confused noises from down the hallway - no doubt one of Ardhalis’s worser snowstorms have iced over the electrical gridlock of the building.

“In a minute--” He rams his palm into the small gas lamp he’d snatched from the nearby table, and it springs to life. What plays out before him is as follows: Lauren, illuminated in gold light, holding a small blade in her hand. She finishes picking at the lock to the equipment closet - making a dent so minute in the keypad a trained eye couldn’t spot it - and proceeds to step back, inspecting her good work.

And then she runs forward and kicks the door straight open. 

This time, it yields with no resistance, and Kieran blinks in numb shock as she gathers up a set of bugging devices. She bumps his shoulder, hard, as she walks past him without a word. He resists the urge to laugh. 

“I should’ve known you didn’t need it anyhow.”

“I don’t need a lot of things,” she fires back, stepping out of the archives.

____

  
  


The viper has brought her companions along with her tonight. The ringmaster is in a form-fitting suit, in shades of red and magenta, stripes going down the length of it, lace at the edges of her white undershirt. He recognizes the younger girl beside them - dressed in a simple black shift, hair in a braid. Both of them cross through the security check without giving up their weapons - after all, on the surface, there is nothing harmful about Athena’s owl cane, nor Dunya’s sharp hairpieces.

There is visible danger in Belladonna’s knife edging at his throat, snake hissing up at him with glittering fangs. Tim tilts his head back against hard limestone as the lights gravitate around him, splatters of pink in an otherwise dreary night, brushing against soft grass, rippling the granules of the zen garden. A peacock is busy pecking around the bushes somewhere.

“Are you going to stop her from taking what she needs?”

“Not if you have anything to say about it,” he grits out, holding his hands in the air. “I don’t have much choice with you, Belladonna.”

“You’re a quick learner.” She sheathes her weapon. “You’d spill the beans on the Sinclairs any day. I have my uses for the loose-lipped.”

“Wow. I’m honored.”

“Bella!” Athena waves a hand, gesturing to the open rice paper doors half-concealing a wide dining room, enough for more than six occupants to dine at. “They’re calling us in!”

____

It’s a strange divide. 

Flemmings, Sake, and a woman Belladonna hasn’t been introduced to just yet on one side - and her, Athena, and Dunya on the other. Their seventh member is notably absent, but Athena certainly doesn’t seem to mind, lounging on the cushion in a languid pose that only _seems_ relaxed. Her penchant for theatrics is akin to her own. It’s only halfway through the appetizers of yasai tem-saru and goma tofu (something she leaves uneaten; peanuts have never been her strong suit) that their missing member arrives. 

“You know, if you’re not going finish that--”

“I highly doubt appetizers are on anyone’s minds right now, _Minnie.”_ The nickname is laced with a small warning. She doesn’t use Athena’s real name lightly.

“Ah, but we might as well pretend, shouldn’t we?” Violet eyes look up playfully from behind a curtain of blonde hair over her right eye. “I am sensing a very tense energy from you right now. You complain about the small things when you’re tense.”

“I am hardly _tense--”_

“Sounds like a lie to me. Dunya?”

“Agreed.” It gets tiring, putting up with two women who have so much... _character_ sometimes. Like Belladonna’s ever going to admit that publicly. “Anyhow, your next show’s coming up the week after, right?” The conversation quickly segues into chatter amongst themselves as an icy impasse continues to swaddle the room.

“It is, and you won’t believe how _daring_ the full acts will be. Oh, Apollo’s been practicing his scales just for the main event--”

The door slams open. Belladonna straightens at the cue as one of the waitresses bows lightly, red-and-green yukata uniform rustling as she gestures to their incoming guest.

“Pardon the intrusion - but your last member is here. Enjoy your meal.”

And the doors close shut to introduce a very, very disgruntled looking Lauren Sinclair.

____

She’d made the right call to dress up, it seems. Flemmings and Sake are in tired-looking but dull colored business wear, and the four women around the table are dressed relatively formally. Lauren doesn’t stick out in her charcoal gray glen-check plaid suit, with a black turtleneck underneath, matching leather elbow-length gloves and boots to put it all together - offset only by a pair of simple dangling ruby earrings, covered a bit by her hair tumbling down her back in a straightened auburn sheet, half up and accented with a high bun. A single lock deliberately frames her face on the left. Tristan had been fed a lie about her going out on a date - _normal_ habits at this time of night - and he’d sent her off with glee, enthusiastic about her getting to know the real world.

He doesn’t understand that _this_ is her world. 

“You look lovely, Scarlet,” Belladonna croons, gesturing to the empty cushion. **“I’m terribly glad you’re here.”**

She obeys the cue - she has no choice but to do so. Dunya and her make eye contact for only a second - _I’m glad you’re safe, we’ll talk later -_ before she sits, crossing her legs underneath her. “It took me a while to get here.” Lauren eyes the vases on the table, containing bugging devices she’d snatched earlier from the equipment closet. “I apologize for the delay.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Athena, smiling somewhat-warmly. “It’ll be quite interesting having another member around. We were anticipating you.”

She smiles back at the ringmaster, eyes turning cold as they meet Belladonna’s. “Apparently, so were your henchmen.”

The viper shrugs. “I had to make sure of your loyalty.”

“You really doubt me that much?”

“I don’t doubt you in the slightest. I can tell - I told you before. What I had to make sure of was your intentions.”

Lauren squeezes the edge of the mahogany table, willing her temper down. **“I see.”**

“Glad that’s settled.” Bella sips at her tea daintily. “You took them all out, too. I’m impressed.”

“Fifty?” Athena asks, one brow arched. “Well, aren’t you something, Lauren.”

“Fifty,” she confirms, smirking internally at Dunya’s amusement. “And it was a difficult effort on my part, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Of course you couldn’t.” Bella’s teeth are bared in a sharp grin. “You were always very good at what you did.”

Lauren’s eye twitches. “I have my answer for you.”

“Go on.”

She looks down briefly, her hands clasped in a cat’s cradle, the leather of her gloves crinkling at the edges. It’s only when the last dish of sushi has been set down - an assortment of raw sashimis and onigiri that gleam like glass in the light - that she speaks.

“I will join Viper Territory.” 

Belladonna claps her hands together. “Well, isn’t that lovely! Flemmings.” She smiles tightly. “We have her on our side now. I believe negotiations can begin?”

“At ease, Viper,” he mutters. “Soon enough.”

She turns back to Lauren. “Well, we do have requirements, you know. You’ll be expected to assist on missions. And you’ll be required to report back like any other member that isn’t part of my team of - well, now three, I suppose.”

“Very well. I’ll report when I’m asked to, but don’t expect complete loyalty from me. And I only have one condition if I’m to align with the Serpents.” Lauren daintily sets down her cup of genmaicha. 

“Which is?” Athena looks bemused at Belladonna’s clear amusement at toying with her former superior. 

“You keep the Purple Hyacinth out of this.” 

Flemmings chokes on his tea. Tim Sake looks only mildly affronted, and the dark-haired woman in the corner merely sighs as she drags on her cigar once more. Athena doesn’t dare laugh, although she looks as if she’s going to burst into giggles any time now, and Dunya just looks puzzled. 

“I mean it,” Lauren says, keeping her face expressionless. “I don’t want him involved in my dirty business. He’s already on orders from the Leader and their followers anyhow.”

Belladonna’s lips curve into a rouged, wide smirk. “I see.” She inspects her flawlessly-cut nails, her earrings shining under the salmon-tinted light. “Is this love, Scarlet?”

Her jaw clenches. “Love is for fools. I owe my partner a debt.”

“So he is still yours?”

“Always has been.” Gold eyes stare down a pair of amber-tinted ones. 

“Not this again.” Flemmings’s voice is now starting to get on her nerves. “The shipments are going to come in months from now - by February at the latest. Sake has already funneled nitroglycerin towards both sides within the Phantom Scythe, and now you want to complicate things - complicate a _detente_ we might be able to achieve in order to work towards the same goal and satisfy the Viper’s arrogant power-grab at once - because of _base sentimentality,”_ he exclaims, pounding his fists against the table, sneering. “You, a former member of Lune, acting like a _child at play.”_

“Now, now, let’s not attack ad hominem,” Belladonna purrs, and Lauren clings onto her speech, desperate for a shred of a distraction that will make her not want to throttle Flemmings where he sits. “My dear _Lauren_ has a point. Individual players outside negotiations will be kept out. The Leader doesn’t need word of this crossing his way.”

“Most likely the _Leader already knows,”_ corrects Sake. “He can’t let this game go undetected for this long. Negotiations are already fraught as they are between the Scythe. It’s all one big giant chess game of who wins out first. He’s already had several Apostles banished.”

**“Apologies,”** trills Belladonna.

“And yet you won’t even consider conceding your resources,” Flemmings drawls. “We have been over this, Belladonna. The plans for the ball and the circus both are in play. Athena and the others have their cards in hand. If you come back now, there is a slim chance he will let you keep your head.”

She sighs, leaning back against the wall.

“Ah, but that’s the thing, my good sirs. I’d rather have his instead.”

“Belladonna.” Dunya has spoken up for the first time in a _very_ long time. Lauren watches her with bated breath. “You wouldn’t have to concede Viper Territory if you joined with the Leader directly. He still needs his pawns. We are of—” she bites her lip, “— _value_ still.”

“A wonderful wish,” Lauren murmurs, “but just a wish. If Belladonna conceded _-_ which she _won’t do -_ the Leader will keep her alive so long as her assets are intact.”

“And that is why,” the viper herself says, gesturing, “I must decline a _truce,_ Flemmings.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “On the battlefield, then.”

“On the battlefield.” 

When he leaves, Dunya motions outside briefly. Lauren stares down Belladonna until she shrugs, batting her hand in the air.

“Go on. Catch up. Just don’t murder the guards this time. We need them.”

“No promises,” Lauren growls as she shuts the doors behind them.

____

  
  


“You’re with _them? How can you—”_

“I promise I’m not,” Lauren swears, once they’re out of earshot and in the garden. The waterfall in the garden is a distant trickling river from below, circular patterns in the sand rustling as they walk. “I promise, Dunya. Kieran—” She closes her eyes for a brief second. “We may not see eye to eye, but we will bring the Phantom Scythe down. I have a plan.”

“At what cost?” she demands, her braid swinging. “You’re never careful. You joined up with them for whatever reason—”

“And so did you,” Lauren hisses, but it’s the wrong thing to say. Instantly, she shrinks back.

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” she says bitterly. “After all you’ve done for me, you still haven’t realized that? We never had a choice - _none of us have!”_ she exclaims, throat hoarse. “I thought you’d understand, but you don’t. Clearly you’re conflicted about something. I’ve only ever wanted one thing,” she blurts out before Lauren can speak. “My own terms. My own way of doing things. I want them gone too, but…” She looks away. 

“Something’s happened to you. I don’t know what went wrong, but something did.”

“Dunya.” She begs - she’s never begged like this before. “Please.”

Dunya only holds her arms closer to her chest. “Just go. I’ll see you back inside. I need the air anyhow.”

Apparently it’s possible for her heart to shatter one last time as she obeys Dunya’s request, closing the garden doors behind her with a click.

____

The wall back is painfully slow - until something distracts her from her quiet concentration and snaps her back to attention. Immediately, her hand moves to her belt, where a knife lies concealed. Footsteps above the roof. Lauren tracks them with her eyes, ducking outside the Carmine Carmellia for a split second. 

There’s no mistaking it - someone is here.

A glint of metal catches her eye.

She grits her teeth, unsheathing her own blade. But before she can leap onto the rooftop, the figure is gone, ducking into an alcove and dipping back into the restaurant.

A tortured scream echoes into the night not soon after.

_“INTRUDER! INTRUDER IN THE BATHROOMS, OH MY—”_

_“FEAR NOT, MY LADY, I SHALL DEFEND YOU WITH MY BRUSSEL SPROUTS ATTACKS—”_

Lauren takes a hand through her hair, groaning loudly as she steps back inside. Maybe she should’ve swapped tea for sake. And then Athena would’ve cracked a bad joke and then everyone would’ve been distracted and maybe she and Dunya wouldn’t be like this—

She shakes her head, intent on chasing down the intruder. Already a few waitresses are conversing amongst themselves when she nears the source of the sound, wincing as she passes a sobbing lady and her butler in the hallway. She could’ve hallucinated the entire thing - the security guards are already saying so - but Lauren doubts it.

_Storage Closet,_ reads the next door to her left, when she rounds an empty hallway. It’s open only slightly, a sliver of light radiating outwards. 

_Got you._

When her hand closes over the knob, she spots a flash of blue. Her hand nearly tears the entire metal contraption off out of repulsion, but Lauren inhales sharply, quelling her emotions as she swings it open. The door almost hits his face, and Lauren looks down at him in shock at the same time he looks up at her with horror: this was how they met a decade ago, all the younger and with the eternal naïveté and innocence only childhood could bring, until they weren’t innocent and naive at all anymore. 

He stands up fluidly, mouth parted slightly. Confused, almost, as to why she’s standing here, not exposing him to security right then and there.

“Lauren—”

She holds open the door. “I caught your signal. Leave. Now. I’ll give you all the information you need later tonight. Wait for me at the adjacent building.”

He stares at her, and she resists the urge to look down. If she lets him see all the torment inside of her, a living storm, in broken pieces called hurt and betrayal and confusion and anger, he will be able to hurt her again. “Lauren.” The way he whispers her name makes her want to relive the beach. “Why are you doing this?”

“This is not because I have forgiven you,” she says as coldly as she can. “Just get out of here.”

His protests die in his throat, and so Kieran makes to leave. The second he does, she walks out, hands stuffed in her pockets, face hidden by strands of auburn, chest tight with guilt.

____

Admittedly, she had told him to wait, and surprisingly, he does. He looks as if he is a samurai-in-training of sorts; somewhat fitting given his heritage, in an oddly bright hooded tunic and pants that resemble ninja training gear. His katana is strapped to his back. “You shouldn’t have flashed your sword like that.”

“I knew you’d see the signal.” In moonlight, they both stand apart from each other like twin shadows, on a rooftop much more different than the Carmine Carmellia’s. 

“It could’ve been someone else who wasn’t me,” she warns. “You were being careless.”

“I wasn’t.” He is unblinking, raven strands unfurling in front of his face. “I knew you’d be out there.”

And there it is again, that silent acknowledgement: they have not spoken of such things since the betrayal, but they have forgotten to speak of it until now anyways. _Wherever you go, I go._

“You shouldn’t have that much faith in me.” Despite it all, she finds slipping into a stunted version of their former dynamic. 

“Should I not?” He arches a brow. “You could’ve turned me in. You didn’t.”

Lauren scoffs. “Even I don’t want my former partner in Bella's clutches.”

“I see.” His hair ripples in the wind as he steps forward. “What would you have liked to happen, then?”

What _did_ she want? What does she even want at _this point_ \- for him to go away, for the night to swallow him up and never return him back? Or does she want a version of him that never existed without the silent pain and endurance, the version she _thought_ she knew? Some questions are better left unanswered. 

Lauren shakes the question off, and without preamble, she tells him everything. And without preamble, he assures her that he will coordinate his plans with hers. It’s a cold-blooded pact and nothing in the slightest is warm about it.

It hurts, the cold. But she reminds herself who put it there. 

It’s also hard to forget he put it there when he holds her back from leaving.

“I should accompany you back.” He glances towards the restaurant. “Most likely Bella’s hires are scouting the area. We’ll have to take the rooftop route. And I highly doubt—” he says, looking down, “your heels are suitable for running.”

“You’d be surprised with what I can do in heels,” she says brusquely, waving him off as she leaps onto the edge of the roof.

“Well? Just don't stand there all night.” 

He follows suit. This time they’re in no rush, and somehow, he’s slowed his pace to match hers - which is how they begin slowly unconsciously drifting closer to each other, until they’re mirroring each other’s movements as they leap from roof to roof. She purposely drops her pace to a slow walk as she flits across a mansion roof, and he trails behind her, her shadow. 

“We're almost near your home.” As if the Foxglove Compound never existed.

“We are.” She keeps walking. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“You were there on your own mission. So was I. You knew I’d get the information anyway. Why come?” Lauren whirls around on her heels as he stands there, hands in his pockets. “Another betrayal up your sleeve?”

“There were Messengers there as well. It wasn’t just Belladonna and Flemming’s appointment that happened to be there a while ago. I’d planned on gathering what I could.”

The knot in her neck unravels as she looks up to the moon, rubbing at the sore spot. “You—”

“Lauren.” She recognizes the tone. It is her with Dunya. It is Tristan with her. It is - in rare moments - Will with Kym. Weakness. “I…” Kieran looks away again. He’s never looked away from her before, but now, it has become a habit of his. “I wasn’t going to burn it all to ash before taking you with me. I wanted to spare you from the worst - I didn’t want—”

“I do not need to be saved,” she states coldly.

“That wasn’t what I—” Kieran sighs. “All I ever wanted was for you to understand. I...went around it the wrong way. I made a mistake. I did.” He hangs his head. “All I want you to know is that I regret it deeply. And I don’t mind if you don’t forgive me. I just want you to know that I’m sorry.” The last two words come out in a rush. Hurried, as if she’ll leave any moment. Curiously, she finds herself rooted to the spot still, fingers hovering at her weapons belt.

_Keep the Purple Hyacinth out of this._

He betrayed her. And yet.

“Just do me one favor.”

“What—”

In one swift motion, she dashes forward. He falls to his knees as she forces him down onto the ground in a kneeling position, one hand in his hair, the other holding a knife to his throat.

“Stay still.” Her lips hover over his ear. The scent of orange blossom tickles at his hair. Kieran doesn’t move an inch as the dagger teases his neck. _You were always good at getting into people’s heads._ “There’s poison in these parts, and you would do well to stay out of it all. Stay out of danger. Stay out of my business. And we’ll be fine.”

Yes, he betrayed her. And yet - he is her weakness. So she will ward him away for his own safety.

She lets him go, sheathing the knife as she rides the wind back to her manor, a silent figure on the tips of moonlit city skylines, one where there was once two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've chosen to dub Belladonna, Athena, and Dunya as the Serpents, which makes sense given how Belladonna now runs Viper Territory. But we see you, Lauren, becoming a plus one. Canon worldbuilding who? 
> 
> "I hate Marvel!" I proclaim, as I insert that one fleeting Avengers (2012) reference into this chapter like a peacock cameo in the Carmine Carmellia arc. Even the Phantom Scythe is starting to get fed up with Lauren's 'He's just a PARTNER' nonsense. I swear, this woman could marry him in canon and still deny her feelings even as everyone around her threw a tantrum over how intelligent yet stupid she is. Maxmium Dumb Jock^TM energy. Anyhow: spot it and I'll give you free cookies. Lauki is chugging along after the trainwreck that was Chapter 18. Be patient...or not. You'll see soon.
> 
> Expect Chapter 24 and its following chapters to have Spice in spades. I’ll be biding the time in-between updates to wrap up loose threads, solidify the ending, and take in any feedback you have regarding the story. Seriously, if there is anything you feel I haven’t done justice to yet - _tell me._ Which is why I really am debating whether or not I should extend the chapter length to 5k-6.5k and keep the 38 chapter count, because...we have a lot to cover. LET’S JUST STATE THAT FOR THE RECORD.


	24. catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren rolls her eyes, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Quick thinking on your part. The...dating alibi. Although - they’re going to want evidence.”
> 
> “Evidence,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue. “For starters, what wouldn’t earn me a knife to the throat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tag. Look at it. Stare at it.
> 
> That is all.

The cooks have made her favorite - blueberry scones, alongside an assortment of sugary breakfast foods splayed out on the table. Waffles in stacks close to tumbling down, topped with dollops of fluffy cream, cut fruit in numerous ceramic bowls that look more like assorted jewels in the sunlight, and a wicker basket off to the side that Lauren can smell sourdough wafting from. 

Today’s meal doesn’t have just her and Tristan at the helm; no, today, he’s brought alongside a guest in their little ritual. Their little game, really, a constant back and forth of question and answer that requires her to keep her mental shields up. So it doesn’t come to her as a surprise when Stefan Hawkes drops by for a visit, under the pretense of talking to the current Chief - as well as checking in on his son’s old friend.

In her eyes, he is everything Will is and is not. The former target of hers in her adolescent years has weathered in the recent decade, still keeping his hefty and broad frame, dressed in rich brocade and dark velvets, a cane in one hand, gray hair slicked back evenly. Composed, proper, dignified. A mirror of his progeny, except for the fact where Will walks with the weight of his world like it buries him alive, Stefan carries it proudly, as the patriarch of the Hawkes family. 

She can see it clearly now. Why Will, in his weaker moments, lets his burdens slip and looks like a scared little boy afraid of taking up a legacy too big for him.

“Lauren Sinclair, in the flesh,” he says with a clear reverence in his voice, bowing slightly after shaking hands with Tristan. “It’s a wonder to see you doing well.”

“Sir Hawkes,” she answers politely. Her mother had trained her in the art of smaller, more delicate gestures becoming of a high-society woman, and so she nods, one leg bent behind the other. A mockery of a curtsy, but not a complete one; she holds position herself after all. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”

“Oh, I just wanted to check in with you both quickly. It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.” His blue eyes are slightly darker than Will’s. Instead of looking into twin oceans, it’s staring straight into cut sapphires, a gaze she can’t easily read. But she masks her tells well, clasping her slightly shaking hands together. “Especially you, Tristan. How are things going down at the APD? You haven’t visited as often.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve been rather occupied with the current scandal at the moment,” he admits. “I know - it’s been a month since I’ve seen you and Josephine.” Tristan’s mouth tenses at the mention of Stefan’s wife. “But if you pop into the office anytime, I should be there. Not long after my niece’s reappearance, the Phantom Scythe has been causing civil turmoil in the upper and lower districts both. It’s a mess.”

“I’ve heard. Unfortunately.” Stefan doesn’t seem to be faking his sympathy in the slightest. “And you--” clearly addressing her, “--work as an officer now, yes?”

“I do.”

“Well,” he says, chuckling a bit, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.”

Lauren coughs into her palm, eyes darting to the side. **“Well. It’s about time I did some good considering my...past.”**

“And - I don’t mean to be intrusive, but I hope you’re putting up well. To come back from the clutches of those heartless monsters…” Stefan tightens his hand around the metallic top of his cane. “It is not an easy task.”

“I went through a lot, but rest assured there are people looking out for me.” She throws him a small smile. **“It’s nice, finally figuring out who you are and what you want, for once, instead of being forced to be one thing all your life.”**

____

This time, she doesn’t kick a door down when she sees him there, so he counts that as an absolute win. Instead, the two awkwardly navigate each other’s space, still freshly wounded from last night’s encounter. And freshly traumatized from Will and Kym’s morning shenanigans involving coffee cups and Kym’s not so subtle flirtatious gestures Kieran’s way. 

None of them have been allowed partners in the past, and since they’re still technically under Phantom Scythe control - again, any romantic relationships have been forbidden, and same for close friendships. But he knows dalliances have not been forbidden. Desire without attachment is merely human want, and he’s never taken up anyone on the offer. It is cut dry and too simple; a transaction. Others don’t see it that way - from what he’s heard, Belladonna’s taken up a few brief lovers in the past only to discard them like flies. Other assassins do the same. Call him a hopeless romantic, but he would rather have nothing than to have an illusion of something.

His gaze darts to Lauren at the thought, but he looks away as soon as he locks eyes with her. She speaks first, surprisingly, conceding a small defeat as she walks up to him, gesturing to a file. “From what I got last night - and through the devices - they’ve hidden the bombs in the lower-class neighborhoods. I don’t know if they’ve hidden them in the catacombs as well, but what would be the use in destroying entire neighborhoods?” Lauren’s hands tighten on the paper. “Do you - do you think Greychapel could be a likely option?”

“Most likely. But tensions are high, and seeing as we’re familiar with the place, it might not be. Belladonna’s territory crosses over into Greychapel, so she might’ve sent the explosives elsewhere - but it’s worth a shot, though.” Kieran shrugs, eyeing the file in her hands. “Did you get anything out of Sake?”

She tenses visibly, eyes darkening. “Didn’t get the chance to. Just point me in the direction of related cases to Kevin Chow and I’ll be on my way.”

“Chow?”

“Involved in the Allendale event.” Quicker than he can speak again, she’s striding past him. “That’s all I need for my other investigation.” They both know what she’s talking about. “I’m close.” 

She can look all she likes. He sighs as he follows her down the archives - he hasn’t finished alphabetizing the entire library of files yet. 

“I highly doubt you’re going to find anything valuable sorting through the shelves like that,” comments Kieran, leaning against the large metal cases with one hand. 

“What, you’re an expert on the archive’s filing system now?” she says, snorting. She scoffs as she removes another file, and nearly jumps ten feet in the air when he grabs her wrist just as she’s about to turn around. Lauren’s back meets his chest as he draws closer, and she swallows, hard, in order to prevent herself from shrieking out loud. 

“This is the wrong one,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear, and that’s how he knows he’s seconds away from being fired due to uncomely disposition within the workplace. “You’re looking for B-C by last name, not first name within murder cases. Blame Wood for his mistakes.” 

_Lauren Sinclair, twenty-two years of age and with the temper of a raging bonfire, gets fired due to getting into fisticuffs with an archivist doing things he really shouldn’t be doing right now in the 11th precinct!_ howls Le Journal, probably, sometime in the future. 

“Your glasses don’t suit you in the slightest.”

“That’s all you have to say, officer?”

She snaps the file shut in his face. “I have what I need.” It comes out a bit strained. 

____

Mistake. She has made a very big mistake, letting him get close to her in close quarters. She is impulsive but almost never foolish; the lines are starting to blur these days, and she _hates it._

“I’ll check Greychapel alone. You don’t need to come,” she says, swinging the door slightly closed behind her as she exits the archives. “See you in twenty-four.”

“Lauren, _wait—”_ She isn’t fast as she used to be, apparently, because a pressure clamps around her wrist, and forces her to look into Kieran White’s eyes, peeking out over glassed rims. “Lauren, wait.”

“We’re done for the day,” she says, attempting to pry her hand from his grip, but he holds fast.

“I know that I backstabbed you and you want me to stay out of your plans. But you know this is much as my business as it is yours.” Lauren flinches as he moves his hand down to barely intertwine with hers, fingers hovering in the spaces of her own. “We have to do this together, Lauren. I won’t hurt you.” His voice breaks, only slightly. “I promise I won’t hurt you, Lauren. Please.”

_Please._

She bites down on her bottom lip. “I—”

A loud yawn cuts off her thoughts.

“I’m sleepy,” whines Kym Ladell, and both her and Kieran turn around too late, gaping like owls. She and Will are both walking down the corridor towards them, already a foot away from encountering them. “Do you think I could fit in a five minute nap in-between the next patrols?”

“Do your paperwork first and I’ll let you nap all the way through the third,” Will says, rolling his eyes.

“That,” Kym says, wiping away fake tears, seconds away from turning away, “is the _sweetest_ thing I’ve ever heard you s—”

All four of them look at each other.

Kym first, open-mouthed. Will standing there, puzzled. Lauren with her hand in Kieran’s.

Approximately five seconds pass before her mind switches on again.

_Congratulations. You have been caught - drumroll, please! - in flagrante delicto!_

“I can explain—” blurts out Lauren, trying to desperately not panic, but Kym’s intake of breath is all she needs to know that doomsday has arrived. 

The following scream she lets out is so loud that it can only be described as that of a rubber chicken’s lungs being punctured and amplified with the biggest microphone there is in Ardhalis. Somewhere, a seagull cries.

“Kym, please, let’s not overreact,” Will says, taking his fingers out of his ears. He turns his attention to the two of them. “Would you be willing to describe how you two somehow know each other so that my sergeant will not induce a migraine into everyone’s heads here at the APD?”

“We’d love to,” Lauren says, at the same time Kym says _“Overreact?!”_

The sergeant looks affronted, and, to her horror, is wiping tears out of her eyes. “Overreact. So - judging from the body language I just witnessed in a few seconds - touching hands, longing gazes, blushing, denial of feelings - I am clearly not impeding on a budding office romance?!”

Lauren’s mouth slams shut. Excluding her conclusion - why does Ladell have to be so smart?

“You’re right, actually.” And that’s when Kieran proceeds to backstab her once again. “ **We are dating**. We just didn’t want anyone to find out.”

Kym falls to her knees, gasping.

“Kym.” Will looks like he’s going to blow up. “Get. Off. The. Damn. Floor.”

“Tragedy,” the sergeant whines, throwing a hand to her forehead, arched like a maiden in an old oil painting. “Tragedy, I tell you! I _cannot believe_ that I, the number one matchmaker in this precinct, have impugned on a budding forbidden romance. I have broken their secret! I have poisoned Romeo and Juliet. I have driven Layla and Majnun insane! I have cursed Tristan and Isolde. Banished Catherine from Heathcliff. Stolen Adonis from Venus! _I am the wall between Pyramus and Thisbe.”_

“Enough with the references, Kym.” And to Lauren’s chagrin, Will stifles a laugh. “Besides, it’s none of our business. We can leave them alone. I won’t tell,” he swears. “Only certain...dalliances are forbidden here. Your secret’s safe with us.”

“If you do tell,” his companion says, immediately standing up, “please, _please_ tell me.”

It’s hard to argue with a set of hazel eyes staring into her own. It’s also hard to argue when Kym’s face is directly smashed into hers.

“I could tell you,” she says sweetly, suddenly getting an idea. The panic radiating off Kieran is better than any revenge dish served cold. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

_What are you doing?_

**“It started in a cafe,”** she begins, grinning as she looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Remember? You rescued me from an awful date? **He was rather kind to pay for the bill as well.** ”

“I remember it very well,” Kieran says, a cunning smile entering his face smoothly. “But I remember it a bit differently. You were quite adamant on getting rid of him yourself. You’ve always been so stubborn, really. One of things I admire most about you.”

_Just a little game. Want to play?_

Lauren laughs with unrestrained exasperation. “What can I say? You weren’t exactly the charmer when we met. All stumbling words and nervousness. Like a puppy. You can be so _cute_ sometimes.”

Kieran looks as if he’s been struck by lightning.

“Well,” he manages after a while, “I couldn’t possibly look away from those beautiful eyes of yours, could I? I think I was the one to fall first.”

He smiles widely as she turns paler than the whitest shade of white, shaking in her shoes.

None of this is a lie. 

**“We met over a series of dates that went much better than the one he saved me from,”** she continues, once she can find her voice. “What can I say? **One thing led to another.** I never knew our little archivist here could be quite the romantic,” she teases. “Confessed first, too.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, raising his hands, giving her a look that clearly says _we are going to talk about this later._

_You deserve it,_ she says, throwing him a momentary glance hard as daggers.

“I’m so glad I haven’t led you two to a tragic yet untimely doomed death,” says Kym, gripping both their shoulders. “I’m so happy for you two. Really. Two very lonely and attractive people getting it on!”

The last three words are emphasized by a wink. If Lauren had water in her mouth, she’d have spit it out.

“Let’s go,” says Will, practically wheeling her out of there. “We didn’t see anything.”

“Sure,” Kym purrs, waving a hand goodbye as they exit the hallway.

____

Tonight, the sky is filled with stars. She can spot a particularly bright pair of twin stars hovering above Ardhalis, faintly glimmering from a distance in shades of red and blue. In the center of Greychapel, the crumbling buildings at least afford a good view of the sky. In the crossroads, she stands like a statue in the middle of five diverging paths zigzagging their way down the street - coat rustling in the air, catching the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and cheap gunpowder on her tongue.

It’s a den of debauchery. One of the places in the city her parents never came to - even though philanthropists and charitable donors they indeed were to Ardhalis’s effort to rebuild the city; in a league of other, wealthier people in collaboration with the council, seemingly sympathetic to the plight. They had planned to order in better supplies for the poorer districts, renew the fading infrastructure - but the monarchy never did, and her father and mother kept warning her to stay away from places like this. 

She finds herself thinking about them a lot these days. Maybe hypocrisy is in her blood. Maybe it always has been.

_Princess,_ Belladonna had once commented snidely. It was no secret the other girl had grown up here, thrown out on the streets until she ended up in the Foxglove Compound’s poisonous sanctuary. _You know nothing, up in that ivory tower of yours._

He is approaching, a dark figure on the wind.

_You know nothing._

Lauren brushes off the memory, tugs it free from her mind. “You’re on time.” 

“Well, I couldn’t be late, could I?” Kieran points to the giant clock thundering above them, visible from even here. She’d dressed down for the occasion - a white blouse and olive suspenders, peeking out through a charcoal-colored coat and matching cap covering her bun. Interestingly enough, it’s he who coordinates with her this time, except he’s all gray and dark colors underneath, a brown low cap. That doesn’t stop his hair from curling around his temples. She resists the urge to tuck it back behind his ears. “I had guidance.”

“Of course.” She coughs into her gloved hand. “We should get moving, then. There are a couple of places I’ve sorted through already.”

“Going ahead of me now?” He arches a brow. “Is this recompense?”

“If we want to talk about recompense,” and she lets bitterness seep through her words, cracks in a fissuring bond, “then I shouldn’t have taken the knife off your throat.”

Kieran holds up his hands in surrender. “Fair.”

Lauren rolls her eyes, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Quick thinking on your part. The...dating alibi. Although - they’re going to want evidence.”

“Evidence,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue. “For starters, what _wouldn’t_ earn me a knife to the throat?”

As much as she doesn’t like the idea of him getting close again - and physically, too - it’s the only way. She has to settle for something, as much as would love to see him crash and burn. “The occasional extra coffee. Small gestures. Visits for an unspecified amount of time. Pet names.”

“Quite the romantic,” Kieran quips. “How many romance novels have you read lately?”

“If you’re going to drop a pound of hyacinths at my desk--”

“Now, officer, I’m not that foolish,” he says, clucking his tongue, walking closer to her. She stands her guard. “We don’t have to do any of those things. Two people in love act differently around each other. Not tense--” his fingers drift over her shoulders, gently easing them back as she shivers, “--not annoyed, not reluctant--” bridging the distance between them; she can smell sandalwood, “--and definitely don’t give each other murderous looks. It’s a matter of science. Someone in love looks towards the horizon, forever and always, always reaching for something out of their reach. And when they finally understand that what they want has always been there, they _understand._ It doesn’t matter if their heart has been twice stepped on, split in half, or crushed to pieces. Whenever they see the one they love, they see. They see everything, the good and the bad. The ugly and the beautiful both. Love is seeing. That’s all there is to it.”

She stares. It’s all she can do.

Kieran cocks his head. “Are we going or not?”

Lauren shakes her head, gesturing behind her. “Let’s go. You have a flashlight?”

“Brought one with me. I’m fine.”

_I wouldn’t hesitate to turn rain into ash--_

The old factory they try yields no results. So does the still-active factory they bust into. If she’d been told which tunnels the Messengers used, she’s sure they would’ve found their bombs by now, and it would’ve been far easier to go forth from there, but they don’t and _can’t._

It frustrates her to no avail. And soon enough, her temper breaks, but not to the point where she acts recklessly when a local patrol crosses by - employed by the royal guard, she suspects, and runs off into the furthermost reaches of Greychapel with her ex-partner by her side.

Though now she suspects he really can’t be considered an ex-partner at this point. They duck into a closed alleyway, waiting until the sounds of footsteps go by. A cat crawls out of the waste bins behind her, meowing as it scampers by. She’s always had a fondness for felines, and turns around to see Kieran trying and failing not to laugh as he looks up at the moon, too late for her to not suspect.

“Didn’t peg you as a cat person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “IV’s disappeared since the split. If I tracked him down, though, and you interrogated Sake, we might have a better chance.”

“I could. I was planning on it tomorrow anyways.” Against her better judgement, she doesn’t tear her eyes away from him as they walk out, checking for any signs of life. The curve of his jaw, the stars in his eyes. It’s looking out into a darkened ocean and having it light up before your eyes; nighttime turning into shades of brilliant blue that swirl around the edges of his irises. An exercise in patience, calm water to her terrible fire. 

All of a sudden, he freezes, shoving her behind a wall.

“What--”

“We need to get out,” Kieran hisses, gesturing to Dakan Rhysmel himself leading the patrol not a few blocks away from them. _“Now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kieran: I CAN NO LONGER LISTEN IN SILENCE YOU PIERCE MY SOUL I AM HALF AGONY HALF HOPE TELL ME THAT I AM NOT TOO LATE-  
> lauren: 👁👄👁?
> 
> The Arabic/Persian tale of Layla and Majnun tells the story of Qays and Layla; the former was driven mad when her father did not let them be together. He is deemed ‘majnun’ - ‘mad’ and spends the rest of his days wandering the desert after he flees their city, after hearing how she has been married off to another man.
> 
> Tristan and Isolde, or Tristan and Iseult, are a pair of lovers akin to Lancelot and Guinevere (the origin is Welsh, most likely Tristan and Isolde inspired Lancelot and Guinevere). They fall in love due to a love potion but Tristan eventually dies at the hands of the king he serves.
> 
> You may already be familiar with Catherine and Heathcliff from Anne Bronte’s _Wuthering Heights,_ aka the OG GOTHIC COUPLE, who meet as childhood friends but are separated due to their families at odds. Catherine marries another man and dies early, while Heathcliff spends the rest of his days brooding until he eventually, like, dies...
> 
> Adonis and Venus, or Aphrodite, were a human/god relationship at one point, or at least until he gets killed by a boar. Venus cries over his death, and her tears turn the white roses red - the color of his blood. Gory, but poetic.
> 
> And last but not least, Pyramus and Thisbe are actually the original Romeo and Juliet in a sense - the two lovers were fated to never meet, from different families, only able to speak to each other through a wall that separated them.


	25. serpentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All boys are cursed to love their mothers. It is a truth Will knows keenly as he unlocks the doors to Josephine Hawkes’ quarters, dread ravenously tearing at his heart and sinew, fear clawing through whatever plastered calm he had stuck over himself before the mess. Whatever boy remains before the man hides himself inside the dark shell of the cold midwinter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am of the firm belief that we are able to exercise our demons through writing, and in this chapter, I exercise Will's in particular - a character who I have not expected to pop off the page as much as he has.
> 
> This chapter deals with the following materials: **mental illness and slight emotional manipulation, from more than one character (unfortunately).**

The clock chimes one somewhere, and Lauren blearily blinks out of her stupor before realizing the lamp on her desk has gone dark, shuttering down into a low ball of flame against the dying night. Without much preamble, she wraps up the large paper board in front of her - littered with past evidence and present splattered in bits and pieces here and there, hints of her mother’s face poking out between a photo of Dylan’s - and locks it in the largest drawer in her desk. 

It had been hard getting past the night patrol - especially when Dakan had come around, but they’d managed to escape through the rooftops. The royals are definitely more involved in this city’s crookedness than she thought, but her mind has frozen over and her mortal body has limits, so she can do nothing more than tug on her usual nightgown and tumble into bed, looking out the window, iced over from the previous storm.

Something catches her line of sight, and when Lauren looks out at the light snowfall turned gold from the light of street lamps, two figures draw circles in the powdered white landscape. Kym, without her signature grin for once, but something more tender etched in the smooth pallor of her face as she pulls Will forward - she would recognize those two faces in a heartbeat, technically one of her many her targets, but closer than friends to her under her skin - making their bodies collide in a haze of dark sapphire and the wrappings of scarves in the darkening midwinter. They’re talking at ease, for once, still hesitant to truly get close to one another. Lauren recognizes this look well. 

She’s clinging to his arm, she realizes. Kym has never done this before, always so brusque around her lieutenant. A small twinge of regret passes through her _ \-  _ but then it’s gone as soon as Kym smiles up at him, and the look of shock on his face rips her breath away.

That look. That look she knows like the back of her hand. 

_Don’t go easy on me,_ Kieran White says in the long forgotten past, eyes boring into her own. She looks back at him, sword in one hand, the other outstretched. _I wouldn’t dare._ Moonlight blankets over both of them.

_ I wouldn’t dare take my eyes off of you. _

The ache is too much, and Lauren slams the shutters shut on a private moment she shouldn’t even be intruding on. When the candles finally fizzle out, she curls up on her bed, hands fisting the sheets, odd heat pricking at the edges of her eyes. Perhaps, a little foolishly, wishing for her other half to erase the pain in her chest.

But when the clock chimes two, Kieran doesn’t appear.

____

“You’ve had too much caffeine.”

“Hmm?”

“I said,” Kym says bossily, hands on her hips, “that something was clearly stressing you out today and I can tell. Is it about Hermann again?”

Will knows that she can tell his cues from miles away now, but he ducks his head anyhow, tousled gold falling over his brow. “He wasn’t pleased with our recent work. We haven’t made any progress on Lune.”

“They haven’t shown up in months. And we need to deal with the larger problem of the Phantom Scythe warring with the city now that  _ they’re _ at an internal war.” A heel nudges at his sole, tiny compared to his own foot, clad in leather. “Come on. Let’s keep walking.”

“Why are you even walking me home? Yes, it’s two at night, no, you don’t need to do this,” he breathes out, tugging his scarf over his neck. “And stop holding onto me.”

“I don’t need you falling over on me.” Will grits his teeth - she’s never stopped being stubborn for one moment. Father’s going to kill him for being out this late; but he’ll explain it was work, he’ll make it up to him and his mother somehow, the last thing he needs on his mind is a sergeant with a voice like birdsong and a temper like steel--

_ “Hey.” _

In a matter of seconds, they’re face to face, her nose bumping into his. She’s smiling despite it all. The block they’re on is near Lauren’s house, and her lips are curved with an edge of worry that has begun to show through the lines below her eyes.

“Look at me,” she whispers.

“I’m looking,” he croaks out, shaking his head as he yanks himself away. “I’m just tired.”

“Finally, some honesty!” Kym raises her hands to the sky. “Mercy me! Am I hallucinating?”

He snorts. “You wish.”

The snow keeps falling. She keeps asking questions - that’s what she’s always been, the constant variable he’s never been able to quantify, the surprise, the imperfect, the perfect. He doesn’t note the way she keeps her watch closer to her when they arrive at Hawkes Manor, nor the way she won’t let go of it when she sees him off.

“Somehow, I have managed to relieve the stone-faced William Hawkes--”

“--Ladell--”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” she says, nudging him. “Just - get some sleep, okay? I’ll take care of things tomorrow.”

He ruins things - that is what he does, after all. “Why?”

Her smiles never fail to stun him.

“I’ve got your back. That’s all you need to know.”

____

Dread is a funny thing.

It’s hardly noticeable at first, see. At first, it seems like nothing, nothing at all, just a light scattering of nothings across your skin and bone as you get up, get ready for the day. Wash away last night’s mistake, run a hand through rumpled blonde locks, button up to the neck a pressed collared shirt. Then it starts to build up, stick to your stomach, begins to mimic the flutterings of butterfly wings in your chest. You lock the door, you close the blinds, walk down the hallway, each step a step closer to the thing you detest and love the most. Dread grows - it grows and grows until it is no longer a tiny rumbling in your heart, but a sticky, viscous thing coating your insides, making you wish you hadn’t taken those ten steps down hardwood at all.

All boys are cursed to love their mothers. It is a truth Will knows keenly as he unlocks the doors to Josephine Hawkes’ quarters, dread ravenously tearing at his heart and sinew, fear clawing through whatever plastered calm he had stuck over himself before the mess. Whatever  _ boy  _ remains before the  _ man  _ hides himself inside the dark shell of the cold midwinter.

“Hello,” he murmurs, voice steady, because it has been trained to be so. “Mother.”

“William,” comes the feminine response he’s known so long. “Is that you?”

_ William, William, is that you? _

“I’ve brought your favorites.” Gently, he sets down a stack of records beside the phonograph, slightly dusted over from misuse. “And your morning tea. With honey, just like you like it.”

“Oh.” Josephine blinks in shock, then disappointment as he sits next to her. Her hair has long faded to a rusted yellow, eyes a sickly milk-like baby blue. Someone has distorted the portrait of a once-joyous woman. “The doctor said I couldn’t take honey much more. Too much sugar.”

His hand tightens around the porcelain rim. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“It’s fine.” Her hand clamps over his, and for a brief second, she looks at him like she knows him. And then she does no longer, whatever mockery of  _ mother  _ hiding herself inside the hollow shell of heartbreak.

“Are you here to inspect me again?”

Will swallows down the salt in his throat. “No. I’m not a doctor. You can rest easy.”

“Stefan keeps bringing them in.” Her grip loosens. “I don’t like when they come in. They’re always asking so many questions,” she spits bitterly. “Like they don’t know what’s come over me.”

_ It will take years if she even-- _

_ I understand, I will pay for the treatment as necessary-- _

He almost cracks the porcelain as he sets it down near her bed, moving her hair aside to brush a small kiss against her forehead. She doesn’t flinch, and if Will didn’t know better, he’d have thought she recognized him again.

But when Josephine blinks cluelessly, like a child, he steels himself to meet his father as the breakfast rings from down below.

“I’ll see you soon, mom.”

And when he steps in front of Stefan again, he feels like a child.

“It’s been a while,” he murmurs. “Son.”

____

  
  


The docks are nearly empty today. Somehow, even the thick fabric of her black, sharply-cut longcoat can’t keep the cold out - she’d purchased it for the sake of blending in with the thieves and criminals known to plague this underworld at the time of day. The leather on her gloves strains as she tugs open the entrance to the warehouse near the first entry port, a man giving her a small nod as she passes through the dimly-lit steel hallway.

Belladonna knows she’s coming. It still annoys her when it shouldn’t; she can do nothing but tug her high ponytail over her shoulder in hidden anger when she steps out into the main section of the factory.

“Ace of spades,” croons Athena, slamming a stack of cards down. “Your card?”

“I still don’t know how you do that,” manages Dunya, grumbling as she tucks the card back into her pocket. Her gaze flits to Lauren and flits away just as quickly. She picks up the shards of her heart just in time to wave a hand to the three women standing around a large wooden table, home to what seems like a large map of Ardhalis, except made three-dimensional with miniature wooden houses and moveable marble pieces. Belladonna wrings a thin rod in her hands, her usual strung-up corset stained with dark splotches. She decides not to ask.

“And our fourth joins us,” the viper trills. “Hail, Scarlet.”

She cocks a brow. “You’ve been planning.”

“As you can clearly see.” Belladonna waves around the rod. “I’ve locked down productions for today. No one knows we’re here but us. Dear me, you look quite tired. Are you sure you’re ready to begin preparations to take down the city  _ and  _ the rest of the Phantom Scythe?”

Lauren raises her hands, shrugging. “Well.  **I’m just as ambitious as the rest of you.** I’m sure I can...manage.”

“Excellent.” She nods towards Athena. “Report.”

The ringmaster clears her throat, brushing off the lace-patterned blouse she wears. “Circus Royale’s next show is in four days, and I and the troupe have been preparing hard for the event. Rest assured the...special event will be on time.”

“Apollo has everything he needs?”

“As well as Zephyr.” She motions to Dunya. “She’ll be making a guest appearance as Pallas.”

“Looking forward to it. Huntress?”

She swings around a balisong, curving it around nimble fingers as she speaks. “I’ve already infiltrated Flemming’s crew. They seem to be gearing for early nitroglycerin shipments. Athena and I managed to delay it by a month, which will give time for our explosives to be detonated at the ball.”

_ Redcliff’s annual event.  _

She’s been blind. So, so blind - of course it would be at the castle, of  _ course it would be in the catacombs that virtually no one is able to get through-- _

Belladonna just isn’t aiming for theatrics; she’s aiming for a doomsday. The Leader is playing a long game, Belladonna has been plotting a swift and painful end. The Viper wants wreckage. Destruction no one would envision in a million years.

She’s been so blind.

“The police will be there,” Belladonna says, looking her way. “Has your Captain said anything about security?”

“He does it every year,” she manages, keeping her voice steady even as she clenches her fists to prevent herself from shaking where she stands, or leaping over the table and slashing Bella’s throat. But at this point, her old childhood rival will be hard to kill - even for someone as ruthless as her. It pains her to no end. She’s allowed herself to become soft; she can no longer find belonging in the scales. “I can sign up for security. He won’t suspect a thing.”

“Perfect.” Her lips curve into a vicious smile. “All that’s left is the in-between.”

“Quick question.” Surprisingly, it’s Dunya who speaks. “When do we strike first?”

And as always, Belladonna has been anticipating such a question. “You decide.”

She sighs, crossing her arms. If Lauren didn’t know better, she’d have thought Dunya’s glee genuine.  **“Finally, something to free me of this eternal boredom.”**

“Take it up with Timmy,  _ trigger-happy.” _

“I’d argue that title belongs to you.” Lauren points to a section in the 7th district on the map. “If you’re done holding in surprises, Bella, I would recommend starting in the middle districts. Interrogate a Messenger and enter through the easiest sewers to infiltrate down into the catacombs.”

“Says the cop who isn’t a cop.” Belladonna rolls her eyes. “I’ve already done so. We’ll do the 6th.”

“The 7th has open access--”

“Which is why they will suspect. Really, making amateur mistakes?”

“Blow up one of the 6th’s sewers,” recommends Athena, popping her bubblegum. “Take the 7th. The police won’t know what hit them.”

Lauren wills down her migraine. “I’m not sending my coworkers on a wild goose chase.”

“Why not?” Dunya’s voice is ice-cold. “You’ve sided with us. You clearly do what’s necessary.”

“I don’t--” The plea sounds desperate to her own ears, and she shuts her mouth. “Fine.”

Belladonna raises a hand. “That’s decided, then. We’ll start with the 6th…”

____

He just can’t manage his acting skills as well as he used to, he supposes. His father can tell something’s wrong, and he knows it. Stefan keeps stealing glances across the long dining table, peeking out behind a lone candelabra to catch a glimpse of his son. Will picks around aimlessly at his food, not really tasting anything.

“It’s been rough,” he finally says, “hasn’t it.”

It barely summarizes, barely  _ encapsulates  _ the events of the past ten years. An unfair representation of an unfair decade, but sometimes, words are a weakness. But Will understands enough to nod, managing a forced smile. “It has. I’m sorry I came in late last night.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He speaks, not without warmth, but with a certain detachment. “Everything alright at the precinct? I can talk to Tristan if need be--”

“No,” he insists, dropping his cutlery gently. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

Stefan nods. And Will inhales; braces himself for the lowest blow of them all. He should be used to them by now, but he isn’t. He still retains scars that open every now and then in the form of salt trickling down his cheeks.

“Good,” his father says firmly. “I’d hate it if you were to throw your career in the trash.”

“I won’t, Father.”

Stefan means well. He knows that. His father is not a mean man, but he does not understand the burdens he inflicts on his son through his actions.

Power changes people.

Power has changed him too, he supposes.

____

Dunya’s balisong lands near the center of the map. A ballistic and a katar land next to it, silver and bronze. They have decided to divide and conquer; each serpent to its own territory. 

Except Lauren, apparently, who has been enlisted to follow Belladonna at the helm.

If the three of them are serpents through and through - she is a fox in a den of traitors. When the arguments are over and done, they decide on a relatively efficient plan, chillingly brutal in its effectiveness. Belladonna shows just how brutal it is by burning the map then and there, smacking the lighter onto the table with no short of any kind act. It shrivels into ash at the edges, scarlet and gold consuming the paper whole, dragons ablaze.

“You wouldn’t consider joining Circus Royale for real, Bella?” comments Athena, snickering under her breath as the last flame fades. “We have a tightrope walk over fire. You could join.”

“I’d sooner die.” Belladonna rolls back her neck, cracking her knuckles. “Oh, and Scarlet. I almost forgot to give you your gift.”

“It can hardly be called a gift if we made preparations in advance.”

“Practicalities.” She waves her hand. “Timmy’s in the closet. Have fun.”

“Stop calling him that,” Lauren shoots over her shoulder, sooner to popping a vein than she ever has been as a chorus of laughter follows her all the way to the outside of the warehouse - and into a small, metallic janitor’s closet.

Where Tim Sake rests, bound and gagged, unharmed. 

When he sees her, his eyes narrow.

_ You. I remember you. _

Lauren sighs, slipping on her brass knuckles. “I don’t like this part. So if you decide to cooperate…”

He doesn’t nod in the slightest, nor gives her any type of signal when she tugs off the gag, throwing the cloth to the side. She grits her teeth as she slides the metal up higher.

“You’re going to tell me what you have on the Snapdragon,” she murmurs, as she strikes.

____

Her hands hurt.

The only evidence she carries with her is a set of bandaged knuckles wrapped in cloth on both hands. Tristan had been told it was a boxing accident - her alibi covers her up well enough; she’s usually been seen in the police training quarters on the weekends anyhow.

But her chest hurts more, and as she stares into the depths of a fogged-up mirror, she can no longer tell who she is anymore. She can’t think about the revelations at hand that she’d received hours ago - not right now, when the past clogs up her mind like a stopper.

Her room has two sets of doors that lead out to a balcony, carved out of the same marble and mahogany wood the manor is crafted out of, and she leans against the cool glass, pressing her palm against the windows. She’d exchanged her usual nightgown for something a little warmer, a puffy shift that trailed the floor, ruffles and lace up to her neck. The sky is unusually clear tonight, a sprinkle of stars coating velvet blue edges. It reminds her of nights at the Foxglove, where she’d stare up at the sky for hours on end. When Lauren tilts her head down, auburn locks in rivers down her shoulders, her eye catches a figure leaping across rooftops.

Just like he did three years ago, when they knew nothing but each other. Now they know other things, yes, but it seems that no matter what separates them, they will never be able to stay away from each other long. 

Lauren furiously rattles the window knob, but the doors refuse to open. She bangs on the panels a couple of times, catching his attention. Kieran seems to blend in seamlessly in with the night, dressed simply in a rumpled white button-down and slacks. He seems to get the message, shrugging a bit. Once upon a time, she would’ve run directly for him, but hovers at the window, fingers tentatively touching the glass. A bit literal, really, how only something so fragile and breakable separates them, the only barrier to keep them worlds apart - though, throughout their lifetimes, they have only ever existed in one world or the other, never at odds; not truly, for they could never be. A lock on the knob catches her attention, and when she tugs on the door again, it swings her way. He silently slips into her office, shuddering a bit. Snow dusts his hair, and she resists the urge to flick it off.

“You couldn’t have shown up at my door like a normal person?” she hisses in alarm. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Well, for one, I can’t show up at all at your uncle’s house unless it’s to take you out on a ‘date,’ and secondly, it’s midnight and a bad time.”

She rolls her eyes. “Could you at least stop climbing my balcony like a cat?”

“Meow,” he deadpans, and raises his hands when she whirls back around, glaring. Kieran whips out a piece of paper in his pocket, handing it to her. “I thought you might want this. Entry to the docks at the end of this week. Belladonna’s nitroglycerin shipments will be dispatching, and we can catch them if we leave on time.”

She glances down at the ticket in her hands. “We’re married?”

Kieran shrugs. “Our aliases would make it easier to get in together.”

Lauren bites her lip as she folds it in half. “Good. I...just didn’t expect it to come all so quickly.”

“It’s a lot to take in.”

“It is.” He frowns, looking down at her knuckles. “Are you…?”

**“Yes.”**

Of course he doesn’t believe it for one second. “It’s none of my business. I know that. But…” He hesitates. “If you need anything--”

“I know.” It’s not a lie, but it feels like one. “I know.”

He shifts to draw closer to the window, and she clenches her fist as he nears the open space, one foot out in the darkness. When he shuts it behind him, after hesitating for a while, Kieran slowly draws closer to her window, one hand raised, uncertain. But she doesn’t pull back her hand when he reaches up to place his hand over hers, warmth seeping through the cold. She looks down at the message he traces over the fog.

_ Bonne nuit, officière. Tomorrow, then.  _

He pins her there with only his gaze as they breathe in tandem. Lauren barely gets out a coherent sentence across her own fog. 

_ Tomorrow. _

Kieran nods sharply. And as if it pains him to leave her, he turns around abruptly, disappearing as quick as he came. 

Lauren can’t help but want to call him back. 

____

She spots her first. It’s hard not to, when she walks with a silent air. Athena can tell from here. She’s had practice in the art herself, too.

As she tips down her hat, she whistles out to the crowd, swinging her owl cane. “Welcome to the Circus Royale! Our show will begin momentarily. And don’t forget your tickets, ladies and gentlemen!”

The Scarlet Queen doesn’t wear her colors often, surprisingly enough. And when she makes eye contact with the ringmaster, handing over her own ticket, Athena sees right through her. A delicate hat hiding her features, decorated with an ivory bow, nearly matching the dress she wears, all ivory and dull brown collars, with pearls at the high collar. The only thing visible in the darkness is a pair of golden eyes.

“Welcome to Nightingale Park, Lauren,” she says, winking discreetly. “Come alone?”

“Alone,” she confirms, mouth twitching upwards.  **“I’ve just come to see the show.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lauren's canon investigation board doesn't exist anymore. Instead, it's a hidden paper map in her desk. Why? BECAUSE LEAVING OUT YOUR EVIDENCE IS STUPID THAT'S WHY. I'M DEFINITELY NOT SIDE-EYEING THE CANON, NO, NO....
> 
> A ballistic and katar are both types of throwing knives - the latter is Indian. I'd like to think Dunya has more knives than she has pockets in her coat.
> 
> The balcony scene was inspired by the original Romeo and Juliet balcony scene. I will never apologize for the amount of yearning I put into this fic.


	26. truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smirks - it’s a ghost of his old one, but something wells in her at the sight of it. She’s starting to recognize it now, this uncontrollable feeling that rises whenever he comes and goes, namely when he delays leaving. She knows its name now - the urge to make him stay.
> 
> But she pulls back on it. He speaks again. “I’m thinking that you want to fight me.”
> 
> She tightens the binds on her hands. “I want to _spar_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start to get extra funky. No spoilers. 
> 
> (Also, I've received more than one concern about me potentially getting burnout/me shooting out chapter by chapter and people being very, very sad about not being able to comment as I move too fast. 1) I'm not burning out, I do take breaks; the only reason I'm shooting out chapters like a money gun is because I keep a daily word count, 2) I SEE YOU AND I HEAR YOU. DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT. I LOVE YOU ALL.)

This is what Lauren has gathered so far:

Zephyr’s weakness is pure strength. The man could be easily defeated by raw power alone. Otherwise, he’s exceptionally agile in combat - and on the velvets of aerial silks. Artemis’s is eyesight. The woman doesn’t seem to notice her right side as much as her left, impressive given her eagle-eyed accuracy with a bow. Orpheus and Eurydice are windswept dancers, moving with a fluidity that would be considered unnatural, but in certain sequences, move slower due to matching hip wounds; Herakles clearly has a literal Achilles’ heel, despite the defenses of beasts he trains, and Athena…

The ringmaster doesn’t seem to have a weakness. Under the fluorescent lights, one would think her undefeatable, the goddess of war herself.

And Lauren knows _Pallas_ enough to rattle off ten of Dunya’s, but it doesn’t erase the guilt of betraying her former assassins in arms. She hadn’t even been able to see her after the show, instead vanishing in a spin of chiffon veiling her eyes. It had been a _miserable_ experience. 

_“Lauren!”_

She bolts up from her chair. 

“Oh, goodness. You startled me!” chirps Lila. She holds out a tray. The faint scent of rose petals wafts off of her pressed blouse. “Coffee? You look quite tired.” Already, most of the mugs have been taken on the tray she carries, leaving behind dewy imprints in the shape of crescents.

“Sugar?” she asks, desperately hoping there isn’t any. The receptionist winces. 

“You don’t like it?”

“I’ll take it anyhow,” Lauren concedes, trying her best not to gag as she delicately sips at one of the mugs, artificial sweetness on her tongue. Lukas must’ve been feeling under the weather too, apparently; he doesn’t even gag when Lila hands him a cup. Then again, the two _have_ been getting along recently. No doubt Kym has been up to her matchmaking hobby - the sergeant has noticeably been extra perky as of late. 

Which is why it’s unusual to not see a head of messy sapphire alongside Will’s when the lieutenant comes into the office, looking haggard. Without preamble, he shrugs his coat off, gesturing to Lauren with a finger.

“You’re needed at the gun range.”

____

Outside the precinct building, the training quarters are quite small compared to what Lauren is used to. But enough funding has been provided from the council that a line of targets striped red and white down the middle allow for bullets to position themselves at the hearts of wooden dummies, marked at the head, the shoulders, every weak spot a human body contains.

The sergeant herself is holding two Smith & Wessons like they’re toys, heavy metal seemingly light in her hands as she fires off round after round, not flinching in the slightest. Shots ricochet off wood, blasting the air as they land once, twice - thrice into the heart of a target.

Lauren instinctively reaches for her own gun, one finger trailing the hilt of a knife, but forces her hand back down. 

It’s been too easy to forget that she’s been a traitor this whole time.

Her hazel eyes are clouded over as she approaches, almost as if she’s been in a trance this whole time. A jolt of recognition flows through her - she knows Kym’s movements, her gaze - this is nothing other than the mediation-state that battle brings. Violence brings.

“Kym?”

Light seeps into her visage. Her face contorts apologetically, and a hand goes up to her nape. “Sheesh, don’t sneak up on me like that! I couldn’t hear you!” Another bang.

“I mean.” Lauren gestures to the target range. “You were busy. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Why do you think I called you down here if I was actually busy and didn’t want company?”

“Company?” 

Kym rolls her eyes. “Yes, my dear former assassin. Company. Get out your gun.”

She blinks in surprise before she does, loading it and turning off the safety. Her companion kneels to grab an extra cartridge of bullets, loading them into the two guns. “I don’t mean to be rude, but Will said you needed me.”

Her expression shifts rapidly. “He likes to exaggerate. But I...wanted to talk to you about something.” 

In a manner of minutes, she’s fired four more bullets into the target. Lauren takes this as her cue to start firing too, and after clicking back the trigger, recoils only slightly from two bullets aiming for the head and the shoulders. Her aim isn’t off - but she’s gotten weaker from constantly relying on knives and her shortsword even less.

“Ah.” Kym waggles her eyebrows as if she can read her mind. “Knives are more comfortable, huh?”

She shoots her a withering glare. “Salad tongs.”

“Okay, okay, fine, you and the death threats.” She hesitates on the trigger this time. “How well do you know the Phantom Scythe’s inner workings?”

Lauren frowns. “Didn’t you read the official statement Tristan sent out?”

“I did.” Kym switches to one gun, both hands curling around the black-tipped metal. “I’m just asking for the sake of the precinct. I want to hear it from you. The Phantom Scythe has been striking more and more often as of late, not to mention the Purple Hyacinth and Lune both going inactive.” She tilts her chin. “Something’s gone wrong.”

A light chill sweeps down her skin. How much has Kym suspected until now? 

“When I was...with _them,”_ Lauren says, spreading her legs apart as she aims, this time steadying herself as the bullet flies, “they didn’t give us much. We were pawns in an otherwise blind system. The Apostles and the Messengers were the only ones in commune with the Leader. And ever since the split, it’s stayed that way, with the exception of the Golden Viper’s territory.” As soon as the detail leaves her mouth, she grits her teeth with the bitterness of the truth. It would be impossible to hide this fact from the sergeant, who already has the eyes and nose of a bloodhound. And when she becomes a known traitor in the end, because she must, and this story can end no other way - the least Kym can do is see what lies beneath the black city of heartless ones before she ends up in the crossfire, helpless like all the other officers are.

“The Golden Viper?!” She whirls around to face Lauren, switching on her safety. “Wood’s killer? She’s running the other territory?” Futile hope shows on her face despite all odds. “Do - do--”

**“I don’t know her,”** Lauren lies, and it weighs her down. “I’m sorry. **I would give you more if I could.”**

“No, it’s on me. I overstepped your boundaries.” She looks down, ashamed. “I just...I worry for us. And you.”

“You’re starting to sound like Will,” Lauren jokes.

“Stupid idiot rubbed off on me, huh?” Kym chuckles slightly. “Ah, well. Anyhow—” She gestures to the gun in her hand. “I think I’ve had enough of these.”

“So soon?” 

“Not in the slightest.” Kym pokes her head out, reminding Lauren vaguely of an owl before she decides that no, no one is in fact listening, and dashes over to the closer in the corner. Her eyes widen as the sergeant hauls out a large black case, almost like a musician’s, and zips it open in front of both of them.

What emerges before them is not an instrument of sound, but an instrument of war.

“Lee-Enfield model,” Lauren recites. “XX22 make. Long-range sniper rifle. Deadly accuracy.”

“I knew you had taste,” quips Kym, grinning widely.

____

She can’t forget.

It’s easier to pretend she can. And it doesn’t haunt her - not in the way a ever-present ghost would, but it does linger. Unexplained tears. The impulse to shove everyone away with jokes and smiles.

_D.L._

She can’t forget, no matter how many bullets she loads, no matter how many times she tells herself she won’t hesitate - not like she did that day when they took a part of her world from her.

She won’t forget.

____

  
  


“Excellent work, Lieutenant.” For once, Hermann is actually beside himself with pride, weathered face not strained with a short temperament as it usually is. March doesn’t look as uptight, too, which is something given what Will has just done.

What he’s done, exactly, should be pleasing him, but isn’t. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your track record has been nothing short of impeccable. I may have been a little too uptight as of late, but...please excuse my actions given the state of the city.” It’s the closest his superior is going to get to actually apologizing. “But this - _this -_ may be the final clue to Lune. The Phantom Scythe.”

A case file lies on the desk beside him. _Kingsley Desmond._ Arthur Desmond’s son, who had been taken in by the police after the slaughter of his father.

Well, not police, exactly.

Soleil, up to their old antics once again.

Kym is outside, as she always is, when they’re finished talking business. Oddly enough, she looks at ease, the sheen on her skin most likely from the training range. A small smear of charcoal stains her cheek, and he resists the urge to wipe it off. Getting too close to her reminds him of the bar, where there had been nothing between them, no false pretenses, and--

“You look nervous.” She raises an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Something on your mind, _shagua?”_

He doesn’t bother to ask what she’s just called him. “We talked about our recent convict.”

“Well? What’d he say?”

“He isn’t angry, exactly. He…” Will breaks off. “This might lead us out of a dead end.”

She taps her foot nervously against the floor, hugging her arms close to her chest. “I still don’t know if this is right. Lune’s been inactive for a while, and given their track record, this might do the opposite of what we want.”

“The opposite? Kym, we’re turning in former PS members. What part of this isn’t--”

“Don’t you remember when the Purple Hyacinth killed those convicts?” she interrupts. “It wasn’t an appropriate measure by any means, but - Lune’s been inactive, and the Scarlet Queen hasn’t been seen either - have you considered they might’ve switched sides?”

He laughs.

There’s no other explanation for Kym putting forward a theory unless she’s gone absolutely _insane. Lune,_ a duo of assassins known to bring the city to its knees in past years, having a sudden change of heart and _converting--_

“I’m not saying they’re with us,” she explains, coldness in her eyes. “I’m saying they might’ve gone rogue. Not with the Phantom Scythe, not with the police either. In-between.”

“What else, then? The Purple Hyacinth actually regretting his kills?” 

She steps back, and he flinches. “Kym--”

“If you’re going to be so adamant on not listening to me, I don’t know why I even bother.” Something’s wrong. It isn’t just his comments that are ticking her off - no, it’s something else. 

Oh.

It’s like when they were back to being enemies at the Academy.

“I’m not--” Will sighs. “I’m just being practical here.”

“And you think I’m not?!”

“Then let’s say they’re with us. Let’s say Lune’s somehow now on the ‘good side,’ and is trying to make up for their past deeds. They’re trying to recompense for the atrocities they’ve done. What then? What other evidence would point in that direction? What would aid us, Soleil, the most?”

“The destruction of the Foxglove Compound,” rings a voice from the other side of the hallway, and they both whirl around to see Lauren and Kieran standing there, expressionless. 

Kym immediately shuts her mouth.

“Lauren.” Will holds up a hand. “Lauren, we can explain--”

She snaps her fingers, and he, too, shuts up.

“I have evidence you might need,” she says softly, and neither of them notice the peculiar way her boyfriend looks at her as she waves them into the archives.

____

He explains his knowledge of the Phantom Scythe off as coming from Lauren, mainly - amongst the numerous files on their former affiliate he's gone through.

Kieran, however, lets her whirl through old memories like he isn’t even there; not doing so would give them immediately away. Soleil stands in front of him. The _true_ Soleil, not the two bodies he’d passed off to the Leader and gotten assertion for - and five lashes for a delay. The wounds have since closed up, but the ones that remain closer to his chest hardly have at all. Seeing reels of foxgloves and gardens and dimly-lit trainee halls play out before his eyes is more than he can bear, and he doesn’t remember what point he takes his glasses off - only briefly - to clear his head.

“An entire training complex for assassins,” Kym says, shaking her head. “How - how did none of us ever find this?”

“It’s disguised as an abandoned cathedral. Overgrown plants in the front. The real action is down on the first and second floors.” Lauren looks down at her feet. “I was never allowed up to the second. None of us were. But the details don’t matter now.” She inhales deeply, and what she says next nearly rips his heart in two.

“It was the Purple Hyacinth that tipped the 10th precinct police off to the Foxglove.” A pause. “Don’t bother looking for it now. It’s in shambles. Everyone’s fled. Even the children.”

“How did you even discover it was him? He’s still active--”

“The signal was traced to his lair in the woods. From what I’ve heard, he’s forced to be. The Leader is still keeping him subjugated, as well as the others on his side.”

Will looks as if he’s trying his best to be understanding, but a certain tension hasn’t left his eyes. “You didn’t tell us this before.”

“I couldn’t,” she says a little too harshly, and her voice tempers down. “I couldn’t. I’m sorry. Kieran...only knows some of it all.”

“That hardly excuses his actions,” Will shoots back.

Underneath the table where they all sit, Lauren taps a frantic message on his knee. His vision is starting to blur.

_TALK TO ME_

“Let’s not make this all about him.” He forces a smile on as best as he can; it’s like swallowing glass. “I have information Lauren helped gather. It might help in your search.”

_I’ll be back._

“Wait.” It’s Kym who stands first, clamping a hand over his wrist. Hazel eyes stare back into his, and he recognizes the look well. It’s the look of someone who has been through hell and back, through grief, and has carried it with them like the weight of armor. It is his own. “Why are you helping us? Why are both of you--” She motions towards Lauren. “--helping us?”

Will remains silent as Kieran’s former partner speaks.

“I want justice just as much as you do.”

____

  
  


One, two, three, four, five. 

The blows land on the punching bag in quick succession. It’s dim in here, dimmer than it would usually be in the police training quarters, but Lauren can do with little light. She’s akin to darkness itself most of the time, anyways, and this time is no different. Auburn strays fly in front of her as she collapses her weight against soft leather, smearing the light stains her gloves have left with her fingers.

“Old habits die hard, I see.”

When she turns around, Kieran leans on the doorframe of the hallway, decked in training gear; a loose shirt and pants similar to her own. He wears gloves - he’s never done so before, she notices, and she flexes her own wrappings around the width of her palms, fingers extending outwards, white and blooming red at the joints. 

“I had to give them that information,” she finally decides to say. “We...need them. As an ally.”

He doesn’t speak for a beat of ten.

“I would’ve done the same.”

She winces. “You would’ve risked getting compromised.”

“We’re both at risk. And we’re both in danger of getting backstabbed.” Kieran gestures to the punching bag. “I won’t disturb you.”

Lauren turns around on her heel, fingers tracing the imprints of her knuckles. “I think I’ve had enough of this. It doesn’t work as well for me anymore.”

He smirks - it’s a ghost of his old one, but something wells in her at the sight of it. She’s starting to recognize it now, this uncontrollable feeling that rises whenever he comes and goes, namely when he delays leaving. She knows its name now - the urge to make him stay.

But she pulls back on it. He speaks again. “I’m thinking that you want to fight me.”

She tightens the binds on her hands. “I want to _spar_ you.”

He shrugs fluidly, and follows her over to the boxing square - a large, rectangular area painted onto the floor with markings at each end. It’s easy. It’s incredibly easy to fall into routine with him, and pretend that nothing’s gone wrong. They match, a mirror reflection of each other, red and black, assassin to assassin. 

Kieran is the one who moves first, and she lets him. A silent dancer as always, making no sound as he aims a punch her way. But it’s hesitant, and he’s going gentle on her, and it’s all too easy to twist his wrist and slam a fist into his back, her own leg winding around his, her back against his as she forces his to bend down.

“When I said spar,” she commands, and she’s never felt more alive, “I said _spar with me.”_

“Lauren—”

“I’m not going to let you hurt me,” she says, and touches bitter wounds, one by one. “Give me your best shot.”

He inhales.

And he does.

She’s nearly slammed into the floor, but before she can fall flat on her back, lifts her lower body up with her hands alone, kicking her legs back until she rams her feet into his chest with enough momentum to send him colliding into the wall with enough force. Lauren leaps back up on nimble toes, teeth bared.

“You didn’t hesitate that night,” she spits, and lets all her unfettered anger go, spill through her and stain her skin red with fury. “Don’t you dare start now.”

“Always so stubborn,” he shoots back, and pushes forward. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Why? You can’t, or won’t?” she grunts out, blocking his punches, slamming a fist into his shoulder. He winces as he falls back. “Show me what you’ve got. I know you have more in you than this.”

“This is what you want, Lauren?”

“You know it is!” she roars, as they meet each other blow for blow, never once stopping. A second too late, she’s missed his hand, and he’s guiding her back, tugging at her hair, hand clamped around her wrist. 

Revulsion sweeps through her, and she kicks him onto the ground, falling on top of him as he lands on his back. She touches the center of his chest.

“Fight me.”

“I won’t.”

_“Why—”_

“If you want to do so, break my heart. Shatter it. It’s yours to break. It always has been.” He doesn’t let her look away. “I would let you. After what I did. It’s only fair.”

Her hands tighten. “I could betray you.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“And you wouldn’t even—”

“For you.” Cerulean meets cold gold. “Always.”

She curses, low and heavy. “You’re a living paradox, Kieran White.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He blinks down wearily at her hands. “But I mean it. I’m sorry.”

Lauren clenches her hands into fists, hanging lowly at her side as she gets off of him. He stumbles back up alongside her, pulling at his messy bun. “I don’t hate you.”

As if it were a surprise, he blinks. “What?”

“I don’t hate you.” She looks away. “I could never find it in myself to do so.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that - clearly, so she speaks rapidly, quelling the embarrassment showing in her face. “I’ll see you this weekend. Don’t be late.”

“Never am,” he says softly, but this time, she doesn’t quite turn on her heels as fast as she leaves.

It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways...it's happening.
> 
> Lee-Enfield sniper rifle models are real; British soldiers used them during World War II. Smith & Wessons are classic pistol brands from the 1940s as well.
> 
>  _Shagua,_ or 傻瓜, literally translates to 'silly melon' in English, but means 'silly' in translation; it's a Cantonese/Mandarin term of playful scolding/endearment. Kym would sooner be caught dead than let Will catch her calling him pet names.


	27. sting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s artificial on the surface, a mere bandaid on deeply seated wounds within the veins of the people calling out for change in the throes of Ardhalis. Artificial as the purple hyacinths lining the ornate hallways of the palace, petals waving from crowns woven around smooth marble and cracked stone. Their smell is too sweet, far too sweet to be actually real; somewhere between a splendid floral scent and sour cloy. 
> 
> Lauren knows better, though. If she touched one, stained with crimson, she’d be poisoned instantly. 
> 
> Rather fitting, really, of a royal family with noble animals for crests to use poisonous flowers as their guardian. 

By no short of the media’s desperation to cling to the better end of things in Ardhalis’s current state, word of Will’s - and subsequently, the 11th’s precinct’s - arrest of Desmond’s son becomes circulated in the papers overnight. With the riots going on against not only the Phantom Scythe’s two powers, but the recent police scandals wherein more officers have been put off duty for using excessive violence (and more that have been let off with an easy thumb due to their status in society), she supposes the city needs good morale than ever.

Which is why it doesn’t surprise her that she and the rest of the precinct officers are invited up to the Aevasther Castle in celebration of their recent deeds. It’s artificial on the surface, a mere bandaid on deeply seated wounds within the veins of the people calling out for change in the throes of Ardhalis. 

Artificial as the purple hyacinths lining the ornate hallways of the palace, petals waving from crowns woven around smooth marble and cracked stone. Their smell is too sweet, far too sweet to be actually real; somewhere between a splendid floral scent and sour cloy. 

Lauren knows better, though. If she touched one, stained with crimson, she’d be poisoned instantly. 

Rather fitting, really, of a royal family with noble animals for crests to use poisonous flowers as their guardian. 

The dress she dons is a pressed coral pink, slightly dull in color and with a conservative collar hitched all the way to her neck, leaf patterns etched chartreuse flowing down the bodice. Both Kym and Will are in suits, complementing each other in darkened gold and black. It’s the Lieutenant who looks nervous, although one wouldn’t guess it at first glance. She can tell. She’s known him long enough to know. The sweat beading at his jaw, the work in his nerves.

“You’ll do fine,” she whispers, as they ascend the large staircase up to the throne room. 

He shakes it off, swallowing hard. “They want to see you as much as they want to see me. You’re--” Will trails off. She holds back on the descriptors on her tongue. _One of ‘them’ made acceptable, like a bug under glass? A pressed flower between pages? A toy?_

“--a guest of honor?”

“Something like that.” He winces. “It won’t be short. I’m sorry for dragging you along.”

Lauren nudges him, a small hair falling out of place from her neat bun. “You had to take everyone. Don’t feel bad. This is your day, anyways. I’m here for you.”

His mouth opens, then shuts just as abruptly. She can tell why.

The queen and king, alongside their son, stand barely meters away from them.

“We’re here.”

Lauren tries to resist the urge to unsheath the knife strapped to her leg as the High Queen herself walks towards them, a large velvet box cradled in both her hands. All of them bow as the reporters surrounding the sides burst into chatter, cameras snapping at the speed of light. Lizbeth Aevasther, admittedly, is a rather intimidating woman in stature, all tall angles and lovely grace. But looking at her is to look at the light - not the light, but _light,_ all-too cruel and unnaturally bright.

When her feet graze the edges of Lauren’s vision, her hand twitches.

It’s Dakan Rhysmel who speaks first from the sidelines; Tristan’s old ally. “Welcome, officers of the 11th precinct. Today, we will let Ardhalis know who has aided it thus far - who has taken it one step more towards true justice. And those who have done more civil service than could possibly be done in times such as these are deserving of none other than our **queen’s praise.”**

She almost looks up. Almost, out of habit. But years of training have taught her to keep her head down.

Her instincts have never failed her, and they do not fail her now when they cry that this is a castle of vice.

But Dakan--

\--if she tilts her head just right, she can see how he _glares_ at Lizbeth--

\-- _what is going on here?_

**“Ardhalis will know who its true saviors are; saviors who have taken us one step to defeating the true enemy - the detestable Phantom Scythe.”**

**“Thank you, Dakan.”** Her voice is nothing short of professionally curt and cold. 

Ah.

Enemies at play, then.

Some dark part of Lauren curls its lip as Lizbeth unclasps the box, taking care to avoid Dakan’s eyes as she unveils a large medal with its corresponding sister awards. 

_Interesting._

She stands after what feels like forever, and after Will receives the larger medal - a glittering brooch carved out of emerald and sapphire, weighing down his chest. He carries it with him as a weight too, almost, as they begin the tiring task of shaking hands with the media.

Lauren closes in on her opening like one of Belladonna’s serpents, striking when Will and Kym are left free - snapping them to attention when she clasps either of their shoulders.

“The Viper Territory plans on bombing Redcliff’s ball by next week. I’ve intercepted the ship that’ll be delivering these bombs tomorrow. I want you two to come with me and Kieran.”

“We’re in,” Kym blurts out instantly, eyeing Will. “Well?”

“It’s our best shot at preventing mass disaster,” he admits, even as he looks discomforted. “And... _he’s_ coming with?”

Like an actress, she lets herself seem sheepish. “He’s useful.”

“What a man,” the sergeant sighs. “So daring to go into battle even for his girlfriend.”

“This has nothing to do with that,” mutters Lauren, avoiding eye contact with either of her friends as Kym breaks into cackles.

____

The Golden Viper is not foolish enough to put her precious cargo on a freight ship.

Instead, the nitroglycerin-based explosives that she has long since buried rest in the underbelly of a heavy metal cruise ship, with enough carrying capacity to bring at least a few hundred to shore. Steam whistles from the triptych of black chimneys spiraling up to the sky, lights flickering in the cabin of the _Argo,_ a couple of tourists waving handkerchiefs from down below.

“Mrs. _Teller,”_ croons a voice behind her, and she whirls around to see Kieran - glasses included - standing there, waving two tickets in his hand. They’re both in simple civilian garb, nothing high-class that they’d usually don, but it feels freeing all the same.

_“Mr. Teller,”_ she intones, tugging at his tie. “Well?” Lauren’s eyes dart to the tickets. “Which level?”

“Third. But I’ve scouted out the basic location of the belowdecks. There doesn’t seem to be any storage facility there, which means most likely we’ll have to go sea level to find where the bombing shipments are stored. Probably below the engine decks, really.”

“Of course she’d store it practically underwater.” She looks up. “You didn’t kill the engine workers?”

“I couldn’t for practicality’s sake.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Kieran speaks, and when he does, it’s in a low whisper. “I hesitated,” he breathes. “I hesitated for you. Only you.”

Her fingers deftly move the fabric of his tie to the side. She swallows, hard. “Your tie was crooked.”

“You know, for someone who isn’t actually my wife--”

“Finish that thought.” She raises an eyebrow. “Go on. Say it.”

“I don’t want to get killed, so I won’t.” His eyes light up at something behind her. “There they are.”

Kym approaches first, dressed for the heavy winter - it is February after all, long coat sweeping her knees. Will approaches a bit more cautiously, still put together as always in dark clothing. Neither of them seem distrustful, or at least obviously so, so it’s really the best case scenario Lauren’s hoped for.

“We got our tickets. But--” she motions to the ship, frowning, “--you’re sure the... _equipment_ is on here?”

“Positively,” Lauren states, thinking back to Belladonna’s tendency for theatrics. “I’ve done research. As he has,” he says, gesturing to Kieran, who has now subtly changed his posture to that of a meeker, less arrogant man. It really is annoying how well it works on people. 

“And to think she wouldn’t even consider the cost of civilian life.” Kym whistles. “Never liked snakes.”

“Don’t worry.” Her eye twitches. “Neither do I.”

“You’re sure you’re alright coming with us?” Will asks hesitantly, the air between them instantly tensing as all the attention between the four of them switches to Kieran. “An infiltration mission isn’t exactly safe for civilians--”

“I assure you, I’ve had plenty help from her.” He smiles. It almost doesn’t look fake. Almost. “And I have three cops with me, one of which is a former assassin. I’ll be fine.”

“Excellent!” Kym’s eyes dart to their tickets. “Ah. I see. _I see.”_

“Covers,” Lauren explains hastily, trying her best not to run off screaming into the distance as she practically drags Kieran along with her. “Let’s get to our seats, shall we?”

____

_“Scarlet. It’s been a while.”_

“It’s been a week.” She holds up the watch on her wrist to the light. “I’m on the ship as we speak. We should reach Ardhalis in about two hours, given how I’ve come from Brentford Island.” What she does not tell the Viper is that three very, very combative others are with her, having traveled by boat to the island and will now travel back again for a very, very long time.

Let no one else be seasick. 

_“The bombs are in the storage vaults below the engine decks. I doubt you’ll need much in the way of breaking in. A good old fashioned set of knives should do it. But don’t kill anyone this time. I know. You’re disappointed.”_

**“Very much so.”**

_“Oh, you’re a darling, Scarlet. Just don’t cause a scene and everything will go according to plan.”_

“When have I ever caused a scene?”

_“Make sure you hang up.”_

Lauren answers by banging the phone back into its hold, dusting her hands off, and buttoning up her navy coat to the collar. No doubt Belladonna is back at the warehouse, overseeing weapons manufacturings again with Athena. The ringmaster is the only one allowed to get close to the viper - much less be something of a second-in-command. It would be impossible for her to have an emotional weakness - but if she struck at _Athena--_

Dunya.

Always the phantom threads, the phantom attachments. 

In harming one, she could be harming someone close to her old protegee.

She’s snapped out of her reverie by Kieran sneaking into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. His ponytail is slightly rumpled, and he keeps his voice at a low timbre after he’s close enough to speak to her, sending shivers down her spine even in the warm air.

“Teller.”

“Teller,” she answers by way of greeting. “Bella confirmed the bombs are locked in the storage vaults below the engine decks. It’ll be awhile before we can get into stable enough waters to detract suspicion and actually get in.”

“I suspected as much.” He sighs. “Flemmings isn’t happy with the delays. I’ve received more rapid orders this week, and most likely Belladonna is the Phantom Scythe’s thorn in their side. Grown into a full-on wound at this point.” She can’t discern his expression from the way he looks at her next. “You must’ve gotten information from Sake about the bombs - and the Snapdragon. Your past,” he murmurs. “Anything?”

She closes her eyes.

“Everything, really.”

____

  
  


_“Living on lies doesn’t feel good, doesn’t it?” spat out Sake._

_Lauren collapsed back into the chair she’d dragged up, slinging her hands over her knees, now purpled and decorated in shades of red and blue. “How does it feel to have no side to be on? Just pure anarchy?”_

_“Oh, you’d know all about neutrality.” He smiled widely. “Traitor. Double-crosser. I suppose the rumors were true.”_

_“You have no right--”_

_“You still talk like one of them!” he laughed crudely, straining his bonds. “After all these years. Still daddy’s little girl. They were watching, you know. The Phantom Scythe. They had eyes on the Sinclairs even before you were born.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why?!” Sake spat, scowling. “You guess why, Scarlet Queen. Your grandmother started it all. Advocating for peaceful protest, that Marianne. And then her son, after you were born, decided to run for it and rebel against his family’s legacy. Wanted real change. Married an upper-class woman with just as much fire in her, too.”_

_“You know this,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You - who--”_

_“For someone who sure gets into people’s minds and cracks them open like nuts, you sure are stupid,” he intoned. “Sandman, Sinclair. Sandman. He was with your family for years. On our side, remember. You heard the tapes; you’d know as much. He was the Sinclair’s watchman for as long as we can remember. That driver of yours was - let’s say - a friend of mine. Tragically, he passed for real a couple of years back. We still have photographic evidence of you he took, however.”_

_“And yet, the Snapdragon turned to violence. If my parents wanted change--”_

_“Change,” Sake spat. “Change does not happen through charities and philanthropic causes, Sinclair. Change happens through force.” He raised a brow. “It was something you lived by, wasn’t it?”_

_She struck, hard. He twisted to the side, but only laughed harder._

_“The Phantom Scythe was their rival. Despite that, they stayed peaceful until the very end.” Lauren leaned forward, grasping at his collar. “What happened to change their mindset?”_

_“Was it all of them or was it one?” Sake shot back. “Your father had a gun. He didn’t use it. He was a Snapdragon.” He grins._

_“Or, should I say,_ the _Snapdragon.”_

____

  
  


“You suck at cards,” Kym says, throwing down her set. “All in.”

“Is your usual response to Will always ‘you suck’?” teases Lauren, throwing her own set down. “You know, Kym, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that you think he actually doesn’t--”

The sergeant slams a hand on Lauren’s mouth, smiling with all her teeth. “Let’s not go there.”

Kieran manages a smile. He can’t help it. “You two have known each other for a while. I can see it clearly.”

Lauren turns to him, slightly annoyed, but Kym answers the question anyway, brushing it off. They share a wide-open booth, within a space largely lit largely by hanging gas lamps. A wooden table separates the four of them, littered with blackjack cards. “We have. Keen eye, huh, White?”

“Ah, you’re just flattering me now.”

“I mean it,” she insists, nudging Will. “But...hard to forget your former academic enemy.”

His mouth twitches. “Hard to forget the person who beat you in exam trials four times.”

“Hard to forget that one time where I actually showed you that I didn’t want to be your enemy and offered you help on the obstacle course.”

“Hard to--”

_“Hard to forget you refused my help, dummy, and decided to fall into a puddle of mud,”_ she shoots back, flicking his nose. “Also, you lost this round.”

Will gapes down at his cards, and then hers. “You--”

She grins. “Another round?”

He merely groans in response as Lauren falls back into her seat, trying not to laugh. “I need a drink.”

“Is it possible not to repeat the bar?”

Kieran arches a brow. “The _bar?”_

For once, she actually looks _embarrassed._ Normal, as if she isn’t keeping her emotions - namely her anger - under control all the time. “I went out with them once. Light drinks. It was...chaotic to say the least.”

“A terrible, very not good, extremely bad day,” corrects Will, grunting in protest as Lauren takes off four waters off the drinks tray being wheeled by. 

“What’re you talking about?” Kym snorts as he sips at his water. “You got wasted after two shots. And then I won the drinking game. And then came home and saw you all messed up at the office later. Best day of my life.”

He chokes on ice. Kieran watches with horrid fascination as Will’s subordinate thumps him on the back as he dissolves into a series of coughs.

“You—” he gasps, “you don’t - you can’t be serious. You don’t _remember?”_

“What am I supposed to remember?” She looks at him quizzically. 

“You challenged me to a _singing competition!”_

“Gee.” She fiddles with her pocket watch. “I must’ve won.”

“You did,” Lauren confirms.

_“You danced with me on a bartop counter.”_

“Impressive.” Kym rubs her hands together. “I must have greater balance than I thought.”

Will lets out something between a high-pitched scream and a low growl, burying his head in his hands. Kieran laughs. He can’t help it. He doesn’t catch Lauren watching him out of the corner of her eye, almost fascinated by him - then looking away just as quickly. 

“Maybe next time I should come along to one of your tavern visits. They seem like fun.”

He regrets having said it after Kym grabs him by the shoulders.

“I like you. _You._ I really love you and your excellent double date ideas.”

“Who said anything about a double date?!” Lauren objects, turning crimson at her ears.

The ship continues to move.

____

Fifty minutes into the cruise ship ride, and ten rounds of cards later, they make a plan. Namely, to infiltrate the storage vaults now that they’ve crossed into stable waters. She finds him - she always does - as he scouts the guard rotations as they go by, noting where the exits to the lower floors are.

“Kym and Will are on the other side,” she explains, watching him watch the waves rock the boat below, sea foam gathering at the edges. “They’re doing the same thing we are.” Lauren frowns. “Are you alright?”

He inhales sharply. “If you don't want me talking to them, just say so. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m no more virtuous than you are,” she reminds him flatly. “We’re both former Phantom Scythe.”

“You’re different. I’m their monster,” he grits out.

“You’re not,” she says firmly, steel in her gaze. “You’re anything but.”

He turns to face her, and she resists the urge to look away. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

**“Never better.”**

“I told you not to lie to me,” she says quietly.

“Sorry.”

“I—” She bites down on her words. “Never mind. Let’s keep going.”

“They’re watching the bow closely, and the hallways too,” he explains as they continue down the ship deck. “Luckily, we as a couple don’t attract that much attention, but they’ll notice us watching sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” corrects Lauren, grabbing him and shoving him to the side as they round a corner. “Walk faster. They’re approaching.”

“Lauren,” he warns, “they’re armed—”

“Trust me.”

“What?”

“Just trust me,” Lauren says, and doesn’t waste any time in slotting her lips over Kieran’s as she fists his collar, banging him into the wall. He doesn’t touch her skin, but a hand slides over her hip, heat pooling through her coat. If their first kiss was rapid and ferocious, tainted by saltwater and a future betrayal - this one is languid and _burns,_ burns in the pleasant way through her bones. He tries to hold himself back from moving, but when Kieran nips at her lip, she can’t hold back a small groan and _that’s_ when he loses all semblance of control, spinning her around and backing her into the metal walls of the ship, cornering her. 

“Patience, subordinate,” she gasps.

“You really need to work on your hypocrisy,” he purrs, and her breath is stolen away from her as he kisses her again, harder this time. It’s so, so warm and _hot-_

The guards pass. They break apart.

“Teller.”

“Teller,” she gasps, trying frantically to catch her breath. “Let’s go find the others.”

____

She leads them down. It’s Kym, surprisingly, who teaches Kieran to use the spare gun she’s brought along. For reasons Lauren doesn’t want to know, the sergeant has gravitated towards her partner. She supposes chaos recognizes chaos.

Will, however, is silent as ever.

Darkness to darkness.

“I know you don’t like the idea of this,” she admits, as they walk down the hallways to the engine rooms. “But we’ll get the bombs out on one of the lifeboats, and spare civilian life from being lost in the process. It has to be done.”

“I know. I know it had to be done.” His breathing is a little ragged; the air down here is more humid. “Which is why...never mind.”

She recognizes pressure when she sees it. “How’s your mother?”

He scowls slightly. “For once, the usual. My father’s seen to that.” Before she can say anything else, he takes a hand through his hair, sighing. “I feel like I’m on a tightrope, Lauren. And you of all people would understand. I’m sorry for burdening you with this, but—” He pauses. “I keep breaking. And breaking. Just this week I snapped at Kym when I shouldn’t have.”

“And apologized?”

When he doesn’t respond, she rolls her eyes and shoves him towards Kym. “Go.”

“Lauren—”

_“Go.”_ Her voice softens. “You deserve good things.”

With no short of reluctance, she watches him slide into step besides Kieran and Kym, who are somehow eagerly discussing different types of summer melons. It’s bittersweet, really. 

None of this can last in the future.

____

It’s a blur from then on.

But it’s what she’s used to. 

They attack as four, Lauren at the front with Kym and Will flanking Kieran. He’s steady with a gun, surprisingly, but she takes the lead, rendering the engine workers unconscious. The lieutenant fires only once, to dislodge a steam pipe and get cover for all of them to duck into the storage vaults. And it’s Kieran who tosses her his weapon to break into the vaults, grabbing the nitroglycerin shipments as fast as they can.

“You know how to work this thing?!”

“I can try,” shouts Lauren over the sound of incoming guards running towards them as she furiously cuts at the ropes tying down an engine-controlled lifeboat. _“Kym—”_

“On it,” she hisses, and with two bullets, the boat goes falling down towards the sea.

_“Hang on—!”_

The metal engine whirls to life as seawater splashes all around them, Lauren sucking her head as she turns the boat sharply around the ship, steering it backwards. “We need a 100 meter distance to detonate!”

“At least 150!” corrects Kieran, ducking behind the glass. “Better to be safe than extremely sorry!”

“Agreed,” manages Will, firing back at one of the guards. “I’ll start on the fuses. Just keep us going.”

She drives, and drives - until the ship is far out of sight, and so is the city. The bombs in her hand are small, almost harmless looking - but when Belladonna finds out the decoy shipments they’ve planted are _not_ lethal weapons of war, it’s only days before she pays the price.

They throw them as far as they can, steering the boat a safe distance away. Five minutes later, a loud bang rings the air, the ocean rising up in thick waves as the nitroglycerin shipments explode into flames.

It’s rather symbolic, really.

And she knows Kieran sees it too, even as they seemingly cheer a small victory on the outside.

____

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Dakan.”

“It’s no problem at all.” Tristan shakes his hand firmly. “But - do remind me again - what exactly was it you wanted to discuss?” 

The advisor to the king holds the papers behind his back a little more tightly. If one were to look closer, they’d see an emblem of a black and white hooded figure with a scythe. 

“Well, frankly, Tristan - I believe it involves your niece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hesitate for you. Only you" >>>>>> "I love you"
> 
> But I promised kisses, and kisses I deliver.
> 
> The Argo ship reference is a reference to the mythological Greek ship of the Argo, which carried the hero Jason and his crew sent on a quest to defeat the Cyclops and steal the Golden Fleece, among other tasks.
> 
> If you’ve noticed that things are speeding up - good; they should be. It’s all coming together.


	28. epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were both born and bred weapons of the night. But Kieran, try as he might shed it from his body like wings, darkness still clung to him like glue. Lauren carried it, shackles around her wrists and neck, and bore it like a set of jewels, jewels that slowly buried her alive.
> 
> “Tell me you’ll flee,” she whispers, breath tickling his neck, her hands on his shoulders. “Tell me you fear me - you know what I am.”
> 
> Kieran faces her head on, cupping her chin in one swift motion. “I will never fear you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the following materials: **minor character death, and severe emotional manipulation.** Additionally - this is the most violent Scheherazade is going to get; you may have noticed up until now off-screen violence is my forte, as I don’t like gore or violence, and that the on-screen violence that _has thus far has been skimmed over._ But even now, I consider the violence in this chapter to be fantasy violence: appropriate for a rough T rating. Still, take caution if you need it.
> 
> Fair warning, there is also a certain character who acts like an absolute jerk due to past traumas. I want to clarify this here and now, although I shouldn’t have to: characters acting ‘snappish’ or ‘bratty’ in certain cases are not OOC or bad writing in cases where they are dealing with grief; however, I am always open to discussion about character development.
> 
> On to the story.

The dress is a work of art. 

According to Lucy, it is pure opulence itself: dressmakers Rachel had commissioned made the dress purely for the former wife of the Sinclair heir, and spent months on it, inserting every little diamond, stitching even the tiniest of gold pieces onto the fabric. What now lies on her four-poster is a result of both hard work and the time of a past long gone: a gown made of the most delicate silk, colored a dark aureate. The long sleeves are loose, bunching at the wrist area, and the sweetheart neckline is held up by a horizontal swath of fabric extending all the way around her breastbone, the entire affair covered in drapes of overlapping leaf patterns, glittering in the light with still sharply-cut rhinestones.

She doesn’t have the time to admire it, because she’s just finished wiping her mouth free of bile. Lauren dashes out of the bathroom, hands over her lips, as Tristan calls for her downstairs. 

“Everything alright up there? We’ve still an hour left--”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just ate something bad, is all!” she calls down, hoping her uncle won’t hear the quiver in her voice. But she doesn’t linger to waste precious time - her hair is untouched and still in its elaborate braided updo, with two twin braids on either side of her auburn locks crescendoing up to a spin of curls. She’d spent a while on it - thankfully it hasn’t come undone. The footsteps resounding up the staircase only hasten her movements, as she furiously zips up the back of the gown with shaking, pale hands.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

**“I’m fine,”** Lauren manages, and throws open the door just as Tristan peeks his head in. Thankfully, he doesn’t pay any heed to her pallor or her slight stumbles as she walks up to him. She’s donned dark rouge on her lips and blush on her cheeks for more than one purpose. 

“You look stunning,” he says, smiling warmly. Something melancholy enters his eyes. “I remember when she first wore it. You look like her.”

“Ah.” Lauren touches the back of her nape. “I...see it now.”

“You have her eyes.” He taps his glasses, smoothing down his suit vest. “Let me do those for you.” Tristan motions to the opal earrings on her vanity, still untouched. Like a small child would, she tilts her face sideways as he hooks on the jewelry, glittering a multitude of colors in the winter light. 

“They’ll ask for your badge.”

“I have it.” Lauren covertly extends her leg, the slit on the dress falling away to reveal a police badge clipped to a black halter. “Hermann wanted to prioritize discreteness this time around. He suspects the ball will be targeted.”

“As Redcliff’s increased security, I hope there won’t be,” sighs the Chief, running a hand through his hair. “But we can only hope.”

“Unfortunately.” She smiles bitterly. “But you’ll be there too.”

“Authority doesn’t seem to mean much these days,” Tristan comments. But he pats her shoulders, shaking off his burdens as he looks at her with a fondness she can’t quite place. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”

“We have.” Lauren looks down, not faking her vulnerability in the slightest. The lies well up in her throat, almost prone to choking her again. “Uncle, I--”

“When you were taken…” He pauses. “I never dreamed you’d end up here. Finally serving a cause you want. Defending the people you care about. And healing--” Yes, there is most definitely a wetness at the corners of his eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for more. I love you, Ren.”

Yes, she is close.

Before Lauren can do anything she regrets, she pulls Tristan forward, embracing him tightly. 

_I wish I could tell you everything, and you’d understand, and you’d see the ugly side of me no one really knows--_

“I love you, too,” she whispers into his chest; this is the first and last time she will ever utter those words to anyone.

This is the only weakness she will allow - and no further.

____

Once upon a time, the Redcliff Mansion would’ve stunned Lauren. Now it only fills her with disgust, after seeing the conditions of Greychapel; of the south shore, after having her fill of seeing more damaged and broken places and people than she’d like to meet.

The mansion borders the 12th district, overlooking the sea. The ballroom itself looks as if it, too, is intricately connected with the ocean. It’s all arching marble and abalone, nearly a blinding-white, lined with marble shot through with black veins, the ancient columns on every side of the walls spiraling up to meet a grandiose chandelier, flames dancing above the high-class occupants and security guard within the room. She narrows her eyes, every instinct in her crying out for an escape route - but that’s old blood, and she quells it down. But still, it doesn’t stop her mind from scouting out the precise locations of the exits - two large, glassed-over doors on either side of the open-air ballroom.

She doesn’t need to look on either side of her to know who’s approached her.

“Officer Sinclair,” drones Kym, the mock-serious tone of her voice almost surprisingly convincing.

“Sergeant Ladell,” she shoots back, and a squeak forms in the back of her throat as the smaller woman practically launches herself at Lauren, squeezing tightly.

“Lauren,” Will says in greeting, peeking out from behind her. Her eyes widen - he’s parted his hair to the side, dressed in a dark navy three-piece with gold cufflinks to match the shining color of his hair.

“Will,” she chokes out, “tell your subordinate to stop crushing my ribs, please.”

“Kym--”

“I got the memo, don’t worry,” she says, scooting back. The sergeant has dressed up too, although more casually than Will has. She’s taller this time around, sporting high heels, in an open-vested pinstriped suit a fair shade of periwinkle, rolled up at the elbows. Kym’s slicked back her hair, one curl over her beauty mark, uneven pearl earrings dangling from her earlobes. “Nervous? First time on the security team, I get it.”

Lauren clenches her shaking hands. **“Yeah. But don’t worry about it - I’ll be fine.”**

Something almost like suspicion plays in her eyes, but Kym doesn’t mention anything. “We’ve checked, by the way. The sewers and the mansion. No signs of any bombs. A team is being sent to inspect the catacombs as we speak.”

“I still don’t think we should be at ease, though,” Will comments, voicing her doubts. “There could be a situation either way.”

“Agreed.” Kym gestures behind her. “They’ve done a weapons check, too. In a few minutes, we’ll start the first round of patrols.”

She tries not to feel for the weight at her back. “Someone could easily get past through the security checkpoint.”

“We’re doing pat-downs--”

“Look,” Lauren sighs, and she isn’t immediately sure of why she’s doing this, but then it strikes her as clear - the police haven’t been able to deter threats for _years,_ and it’s no different this year. “Someone’s already gotten through the checkpoint with a weapon.”

“What?!” Kym demands, gripping her wrist tightly. “Who?”

She regards both of them evenly. “Me. Will - part the shawl around my neck to the right.”

_“Lauren.”_

“Do it,” she insists. A set of gentle, slightly callused fingers pry apart the soft material covering her back - and eventually close over a metal hilt. His sigh grazes her back.

“You brought a sword with you?” He doesn’t sound hurt as much as he sounds incredulous - and angry. “You don’t trust in the system that much, and you’re in it?”

“I don’t need to have blind faith.” But she dips her head anyway. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“No.” Kym shakes her head, as if clearing the fog from her mind. “No, you’re right.” She cups her hand to her mouth. _“Lukas!_ Tell the rest of the team to conduct a two-minute search. I’ll join you soon.” 

“I can join, too. In a bit.”

“You have a point,” Will concedes, crossing his arms. “I just...you didn’t trust us?”

“I trust you,” she concedes, gripping onto both their hands. “But sometimes our structures become shackles. I don’t want them to deter us more than they already have.”

“You might want to join the team later,” Kym says, a sly grin slowly spreading itself on her face, “because I think someone you rather like is here.”

Lauren whips her head around to see a man in white crossing down the carpeted steps. She’d recognize that face anywhere - even if he has styled his hair in a ponytail for today, his surname color covering him like an angel. 

“I’m going to take Will with me,” she chirps. “Any objections?”

“None,” she says distantly. “I’ll--”

“I know,” Kym says, winking as she smoothly hooks Will’s arm around hers, pulling him to the side.

____

She is in gold, a wreath of colors like the amber of her eyes swathing her in luxury. And yes, he’s seen her in formal dress before - the Golden Clover was the first - they’ve _both_ seen each other like this before. But that was before a litter of betrayals, revelations of each other’s secrets. When they could not look out fear of being stung, of being punished. Now they look still, but it is hesitant, out of the reluctant trust they both share just so soon after amends.

Now, looking at her is like looking at a sunrise - something he dares to look at, steal for his own.

She curtsies, because of course she does, always playing the role of a lady in high society. And he bows back, having been trained a million times over to play the role of the gentleman. Her birthstones dangle from her ears, and he watches with a slight grin as she takes him all in - in ivory and off-whites this time around, clashing with the dark locks of his hair.

“Your tie isn’t crooked,” she manages.

“Good to see you too, officer.” He holds out a hand. “May I have this dance?”

She startles slightly. The orchestra in the back has just started up a slow tune, something resembling a waltz. Lauren accepts, thankfully, her hand covering his as he grips her waist lightly, both of them getting into position.

“Haven’t we done this before?”

“Hopefully we won’t have to knock out a traitor,” he grumbles. She doesn’t laugh, but smiles slightly, and he takes that as a sign of better things to come. But the light in her eyes - if he looks closely, her pupils are dilated, and her irises are a tainted champagne.

Something’s happened. She has to be nervous about something.

As if she can sense his unspoken question, she speaks. “The circus troupe will arrive any moment now. Belladonna might be with them.”

“If she is, she can’t act in broad daylight.” He strokes a thumb over her hand gently. “But just in case, I’ve taken precautions.”

Lauren arches an eyebrow as he twirls her around. “Do I want to know what those precautions are?”

He shrugs. “I’ll keep you guessing.”

A groan. _“Kier.”_

It really shouldn’t affect him as much as he does. But his eyes light up as the familiar nickname crosses her lips once again. She hasn’t called him that in _ages._

“That infuriated with me?”

“You always infuriate me,” she drawls. “And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” He shouldn’t be teasing, but--

“I told you to stop _grinning_ like that, for heavens’ sake, people are going to think I got down on one knee and proposed to you, _you--”_

\--it’s so _fun_ to see her like this again.

“Hmm?”

“You really are like a cat,” is all she says as they dance in a circle. But she closes her mouth abruptly, swallowing harshly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned.

“I--” Lauren shakes her head. “I’ve just been feeling awful this entire morning in more ways than one.”

“Let me help.”

“I don’t think you can do anything for what I feel,” she says. Now he recognizes the circles under her eyes - they’re those same shadows that haunt her after a kill. They were both born and bred weapons of the night. But Kieran, try as he might shed it from his body like wings, darkness still clung to him like glue. Lauren carried it, shackles around her wrists and neck, and bore it like a set of jewels, jewels that slowly buried her alive.

“Tell me you’ll flee,” she whispers, breath tickling his neck, her hands on his shoulders. “Tell me you fear me - you know what I am.”

Kieran faces her head on, cupping her chin in one swift motion. “I will never fear you.”

The violins sing.

____

“Enjoying the ball, your Majesties?”

“Always, Viscount,” Phillip says, acknowledging Redcliff’s presence with a sharp nod. The view from the upper balconies is stunning, but it’s hard to pay attention to it with Arthur currently in Lizbeth’s clutches, tugging at his mother’s dress. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Oh, please. This was years in the making. And the troupe will be here as always. Some new members have joined as well.”

“Can I expect an impromptu performance, then?”

“Perhaps.” Redcliff seems amused by this. “Thank you for coming this year. The people will be overjoyed to see their ruler being down to earth for once.”

“Well, not all of them…” Phillip gestures, clearly uncomfortable. “The protests in the lower class districts have been getting worse. I’ve been trying to respond to their anger as best as I can, but—”

“You are doing excellently, dear,” says Lizbeth, but her gaze is unmistakably sharp. “Some people just want to cause trouble. It’s no fault of yours.”

“Dearest, they have a right to be angry, even if it is not in the right way.”

“After everything we’ve done for those commoners?” She snorts. “Please.”

“I’ll see myself out,” Redcliff says, bowing lowly. “Please enjoy the rest of the ball, your Majesties.”

“You can be certain we’ll be entertained,” murmurs the queen, looking down at the spectacle below, dancers in a shining sea. “Very entertained indeed.”

____

  
  


“I can tell you’re bothered by something, you know.” 

Kym looks as stunned as Will currently is - he’s not the type to take the lead in their conversations; nor the type to be frank and honest. But to let Kym constantly tip the scales in her favor would be rude of him, and besides, he’s already done enough disservice to her as it is.

“I was thinking,” she says, gesturing with her flute of champagne. Now that they’ve tripled-checked every single guest coming into the ball, and now that the room is now practically filled to the brim with people, they merely linger at the edges, still keeping a watchful eye on the patrons circulating the room. “Just...on edge, a little, is all,” comes the admittal, Kym looking nothing short of discomforted as she bares her truth to him. 

“We’ve done all we can.” He’s terrible at reassuring people who aren’t family, but it’s a shot in the dark.

“We have, but I know we could do more.”

And that’s when he knows she isn’t talking about security.

“If we were to catch Lune, it wouldn’t instantly solve all our problems,” Will says, crossing his arms. “Valuable source of information they may be, we’d still have to turn them in.”

“We wouldn’t have to immediately,” she suggests, watching the dancers go by.

His jaw works. “I wouldn’t exactly have a choice.”

“You have more choices than you think,” Kym says softly.

“Hermann would expect a solution. So would the Chief, and my father--” He breaks off. He shouldn’t be involving Stefan in this. “Never mind. We’re under pressure.”

_“You_ are,” she corrects. “Unfortunately, you’re under more pressure than I ever will be.” The lights are playing dazzling colors in her eyes as the chandelier above sparkles. “If you ever need help, you know--”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” he bursts out, astonished that she’d even go to that length. 

“And I couldn’t let a _friend_ suffer,” she retorts. “Seriously, Will. When are you going to understand you don’t have to fix everything?!”

He blinks. “Friend?”

She groans, shaking her head. “What did you think we were? Workplace rivals still? Worse?”

“Honestly, I...wasn’t sure.”

“Then let me make things clear. You are my _friend,_ and I consider you a _friend,_ even though half the time you constantly make me want to dig my grave in six feet of paperwork. Got it?” Somehow, she’s gotten incredibly close to him, the small distance between them pricking at his skin.

He lets out a small laugh. “Alright, Ladell.”

“Hawkes.” But the smile on her face is genuine.

____

  
  


She would recognize those eyes anywhere - dark as night, the weight of gravity in them. Lauren barely gets out a coherent goodbye to Kieran as she dashes over to the slender girl moving like a ghost through the winding crowd of people. Her own steps are just as silent, the two of them cat and mouse in a floor full of dancers.

When she grabs Dunya Almari’s arm, a blade nearly nicks her skin, but she twists the Huntress’s arm at an angle just enough to make her loosen her grip on the katar she holds. Her hair is in a sleek ponytail, the sleeveless dress she wears a form-fitting swath of gray silk. 

“Happy seventeenth,” she quips, stashing the katar discreetly in her own halter. 

Dunya snorts. “You remembered my birthday, but you forgot Kieran’s?”

“That was three days ago, and no, I don’t forget.” Lauren lets go of her arm, noticing the cold in her companion’s eyes. “What are you doing here? Where’s the rest of the troupe? I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Arriving soon. And I know you have,” she bites out. “The rest of the Serpents are coming, too. I’m here to disable any plans they might have installed already.”

“So the viper herself really is stepping into enemy territory.” She rubs at the building headache in her temples. “I should’ve known.”

“What’s in it for you, stopping her plans?”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she says evenly. “It’ll do no one any good if the city goes up in flames. I know you hardly trust me after what I did, Dunya, but...pledging loyalty to the Serpents was an act.”

“And becoming an officer was, too?”

Lauren shuts her mouth at the comment. Dunya keeps going, haughtily arching a brow as she places both hands on her hips. She’s starting to recall what her behavior reminds her of - and now she can see it clear as day: Bella’s movements in the way Dunya acts, even if the Huntress is the opposite of the Viper. “If there’s anything I know to be true about you, Lauren, it’s that you’re only usually in for something for only yourself. So tell me this, at least. And be honest.” Her eyes bore into her own. “What do you _want?”_

Her fists clench. “Justice brought to light. And--” before Dunya can object, “answers to my past.”

She shakes her head. “Even after Sake, you’re still not satisfied.” But the look in her eyes looks more sad than anything. 

“There’s more, Dunya. I swear. There’s just - there are just some things you can’t let go of. I never wanted to hurt you in the process.”

“You did anyway.”

“I was wrong to do so.” Lauren looks to the side. “I don’t expect you to forgive me instantly.”

When she next looks at Dunya, the younger girl is seemingly gaping at something beyond her vision. She turns in her direction - and sees the circus troupe spilling in, in more elaborate costume than they’d usually be. What’s struck Dunya so, apparently, is Athena and Belladonna at the helm, the latter dressed in a custom-cut red suit with gold epaulets, her normally loose ponytail in a bun, and the former in an A-line gown, with crimson flowers dotting the fabric like droplets of blood, all the way up to her chest. Twin silver snakes curl down her ears. 

The Viper is out for carnage.

“Dunya--”

“Go.” Her gaze is steely. “I have a plan of my own. I’m leaving soon, anyhow.”

“You can’t just--”

_“Go.”_ She presses a hand to the small of her back. “She’s already walking over to Kieran.”

____

He senses her coming before she appears in front of him. Belladonna’s steps are more than silent - they are feather-light, the hem of her gown barely sweeping the polished floor. It looks as if despite not pledging allegiance to the troupe, they’ve designated her with an honorary title anyhow. Kieran doesn’t miss the small peacock brooch she wears.

_Hera._

“Old friend,” she croons, venom lacing every molecule of her voice as she sidles up to him.

“Crumbs,” he purrs, warming up the voice he brings out only for the kill. “I’ve been found, haven’t I?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lauren approach them steadily, furious.

_No, no, don’t come here, you’ll get hurt--_

“You have been,” she says, leaning against an ancient pillar, seemingly at ease. Her smile is like a knife plunging directly into his heart. “And _you_ have also been gone for far too long.” She tilts her head to the side. “Enjoying the Leader’s company?”

“He doesn’t make for good small talk.”

“Men rarely do,” she simpers. “Oh, pardon me. You’re the exception.”

“Am I?”

Kieran doesn’t have time to linger on her choice of pronoun as his partner comes even closer, and instead steps closer to Belladonna, breathing in her floral scent. It’s poetic, almost how something so twisted inside smells like wildflowers and elderberries. “If I am truly the exception, why spend all this time trying to dethrone the Leader when you could just so easily beat him at his own game?”

“You hardly know anything, White.”

“I know you’ve never liked me,” he growls, “and that counts for something.”

“You’re right. I never did really.” She arches a brow as Lauren reaches his side, dread pooling through him, a deadweight. “Which was why I chose her instead.”

“Bella,” she intones, angrier than he’s ever seen her. “You’re here.”

“Lovely to see you again, Scarlet.”

“I would slit your throat right here and right now if it weren’t for public spectacle having my head,” she hisses. “Should I inquire into your business here, or force it out of you?”

“Dear me. Were you always this prone to violence?” Belladonna sneers. “You needn’t worry. I’m not planning anything as of the moment.”

“Poor choice of words, because I’ve always known you to savor your prey.” Lauren flicks a finger against her voluminous skirt. “Your weapons, now. Before I take out my own.”

“And risk betraying those you love?”

_“I told you,”_ she snarls. Kieran attempts to hold her back, but Lauren shoves him aside, her eyes dilated with anger as she grips Belladonna’s wrists in her hands. “Your weapons. _Now.”_

“Oh, Scarlet. They don’t know who you are, do they?” She looks back at Kieran. “Nor do they he. I really do wish this could end in any way but tragedy. You’re being so noble.”

“I said--”

“Fine, fine, if you are so _persistent.”_

In hindsight, he should’ve acted quicker. 

He should’ve shoved Lauren aside even if it would’ve hurt her. He would’ve done worse things to save her life and would’ve risked betraying her trust if it meant saving her from the fate that met her next. But Kieran played the fool all too well, putting all of his trust in his partner’s hands and heart. 

And could do nothing but watch as Belladonna pulled out the smallest of knives and nicked Lauren right on the arm.

____

It’s like being burnt alive.

Quick as a flash, the Viper stashes the knife in a hidden pocket, gripping onto Lauren’s arm as the gash slowly turns from a pale white to a blossoming red. To any partygoer, it looks as if Belladonna is merely aiding a friend who has injured herself on cut glass, perhaps, or a sharp edge. But she knows better.

The only problem is that she can’t _think._ Her vision is blurring, and a cough rises in her throat. She stumbles back against the pillar as Kieran catches her, his weight pressed against her head. Goodness, he’s warm.

“I’ll kill you,” he seethes, and she shivers from the dark fury in his voice. “I swear--”

“Now, we don’t want a scene, do we?” Belladonna smiles gently. “Be thankful I didn’t lace the blade with my signature flavor. Crimson Cobra venom is just a dose less lethal than Golden Viper. If you get her to a doctor quick enough, maybe she’ll survive.”

She’s burning up. She’s _burning--_

Lauren gags, and before she can vomit up bile on the floor, Kieran is holding her head in his hands, covering her mouth with a cloth.

Her fingertips are stained blue as she clumsily taps a message against his leg, hoping he gets it.

_Stay with me._

“Don’t expect leniency from the Purple Hyacinth,” he says coldly as he sweeps her into his arms. “The next time we meet, Viper, you’ll get your wish to fight me so badly.”

“I knew you could figure it out eventually,” she purrs.

_No. No. Set me down. I’m fine._

He turns to her, frantic like she’s never seen him. It would almost warm her heart if they were in any other scenario. “Lauren--”

_I’M IMMUNE_

He almost drops her.

“What?”

Lauren spits the last of the bile onto the napkin, throwing it onto the ground as she stumbles back onto her feet, still clinging to Kieran for support. “You can’t kill me that easily, Bella,” she croaks out, black staining the edge of her mouth. “You’re--” Another cough. “You’re getting sloppy.”

The Viper’s anger is not clear at first. But she can see it. It starts in the eyes, the darkening of the irises. “Am I?”

She smiles, her lipstick a harsh contrast to her pale skin. “You are.”

“I’m impressed, really. You usually play to win instantly. Not the long haul.”

“Oh, I learned eventually,” she hisses. “I didn’t know what poison you were going to use, so I chose them all.” 

A drop of Crimson Cobra. A touch of Golden Viper. The edge of a datura flower leaf. Crushed foxglove petals, cut into atomic-sized pieces. Miniscule halves of a death cap. Every single poison the Foxglove Compound had taught her about and more.

It had taken months for her system to adjust, but she’d gotten through it.

“You were poisoning yourself,” Kieran breathes. “You used mirthdiasm for _months_ and you _didn’t---”_

“I had to,” she croaks out. “I’m not sorry.”

“I really must admire your efforts. **And this little game of yours is rather amusing, too, but unfortunately, time runs short.** Even if you’re not dead, you’re still weakened. So I assume you’ll like this next present.” 

An officer bursts into the room, stumbling to his feet. Without preamble, he dashes over to Hermann and March, at the front. _“The catacombs security team is dead!”_

She whirls around to face Belladonna. “You--”

“You really thought you had a plan,” she says, sighing. “How daring, Scarlet. But pawns don’t control queens.”

“Everyone,” booms Hermann, “there has been a complication with security. I need you to please exit the ballroom in an orderly fashion; our officers will aid you--”

He’s too late. 

____

So is she.

All too soon, masked figures step out of the shadows as the hidden bombs around the ball’s upper ceilings detonate.

____

_“LAUREN!”_

Her name.

Someone is shouting her name.

She can’t see. It’s hard to see, with the remnants of the poison going to her head. But someone is helping her up anyway, waving away the smoke of the wreckage, hands holding her up as she struggles to stand. The sword presses against her back, and with an effort that feels like lifting up the weight of the world, she tugs it out of her dress, letting the sheath fall to reveal Katoptris.

“Lauren.” The voice she knows. “Can you hear me?”

She blinks again. Blue eyes. Eyes like the ocean.

“Oh.” A hand covers her own. “Pretty.” 

Kieran looks alarmed. “Lauren--”

“I got it. I’ve got it,” she mutters in a daze, stumbling further into his hold. Her hair has come undone, and it spirals around her shoulders, only one braid holding half of her auburn locks up. “Everyone--” She can’t comprehend the horror in front of her. Hopefully Dunya has gone. “Is--”

“The security team is safe. So are Kym and Will. The casualties…” He breaks off, and she realizes he’s more infuriated than anything. “Redcliff’s attackers are still at large. We need to help the police. Belladonna got away. Her own plan was sabotaged by the Leader, given how his recruits are here.”

“We can both kill her together,” she croaks out. A yell echoes throughout the ballroom as bullets ricochet. “You said you had a plan--”

“I’d installed counter-timers on the catacomb bombs. I didn’t know she was going to defuse--” 

“No one saw this coming. No one, okay? And you don’t get to blame yourself--”

_“Kym!”_

Will.

“Go!” yells Kieran as she darts into the fray.

It’s a bloody battleground before her eyes, once the smoke clears. Hermann and March leading officers frantically trying to hold back a barricade against Phantom Scythe-aligned attackers. The troupe is nowhere to be seen - no doubt Athena has taken them with her. Civilians rest at her feet, and she lets the anger carry her as all sound leaves her mind.

_Fiat iustitia._

The sergeant has been struck down, if only temporarily. Will is frantically trying to rally his men together, clearly panicked.

_Fiat iustitia._

She lets her anger carry her one last time.

Lauren watches through the eyes of an outsider as the first gunman falls at her hands, as she dives Katoptris straight into his chest. In a whirl of gold and more gold, slowly being consumed by dragons of red on diamond-studded patterns, she launches herself, the vengeful storm, at every single attacker, not hesitating once.

Not hesitating _once._

There is silence, finally.

Somehow, Kieran has found knives, taking down the last two. 

“Are there more?” she calls.

“Most likely.” He readies his weapons. “I’ll--”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Lauren?” whimpers someone behind her. And then it hits her, _finally,_ the weight of living, the weight of grief, the weight of betrayal, as she turns around to find Kym slung over Will’s shoulders, the sergeant stumbling alongside her superior, the rest of the officers behind him standing straight as arrows. They look wary of her and Kieran. They look afraid.

“Lauren,” Kym whispers. “What have you done?”

She’s at a loss for words, once again. The poison is still muddying her head.

“I’m sorry.” Lauren lets her sword fall at her side. “I’m sorry.”

It’s hard to look at Will. It’s hard, because when she does, he looks as if he wouldn’t hesitate to aim the barrel straight at her head and shoot.

“I didn’t want to believe it.” He’s shuddering, now. “I didn’t want to believe _\- she -_ was _you--”_

“Will--”

_“You lied,”_ he spits. “That sword - it’s _her weapon._ And _you…”_ His eyes widen as he sees Kieran, whose glasses have long perished in the rubble. The next two words hit her in the heart harder than she thought they would.

“You’re Lune.”

A low ticking sounds above them.

Kieran speaks first. _“Get down--!”_

She doesn’t die. She should’ve, but she doesn’t, because the man that saves her from being distracted by a fake bomb and the man that also saves her from earning a bullet in her chest lands on top of her just in time for the rest of the Phantom Scythe attackers to arrive.

Tristan Sinclair groans in her arms as she turns him over, frantically pressing at the wound in his chest.

“No,” she blurts out, her vision blurring again, but this time with the familiar sting of tears. “No, _no--”_

“It’s alright.” He squeezes her hand. “I forgive you.”

“Uncle, you shouldn’t--” She’s crying now, saltwater mixing with the crimson on his chest, the two contorting together like some morbid palette of colors, the precise shade of pomegranates. “I can’t lose you, too, I _can’t--”_

_My one weakness, oh, my one and only--_

He holds her hand tighter in his, as if she were that child again. “The library. Second floor, in the back shelf, third drawer. You have to understand. You have to--” Tristan coughs again. “I’m sorry.” He isn’t looking at her anymore, no, somewhere beyond the mortal coil, the veil. “I’m sorry I failed you both.”

_“Uncle--”_

“It’s okay.” Tristan smiles. “It’s okay, Ren.”

And he’s gone.

____

Nothing.

She feels nothing.

The man who’d shot him hovers above her, dressed in a tailored black-and-white suit, a mask covering his hooded face. The others look like him, too, held back by the remaining officers.

Lauren slowly takes one step back. And another. The anger that had once carried her now swarms her, fills her veins and her bones and her blood and takes everything soft out of her, carving whatever weakness that had been left in an already-weak body out. What remains before her invaders is someone who has let anger become her.

What remains is the shell of once what was.

In one movement alone, Katoptris flies through the air, an extension of her arm, and snaps her attacker’s mask right off.

____

He is falling.

He is _falling._

She stands above him, a warrior of gold and red, crimson painting her body in wide swaths.

She looks nothing like he imagined her to once be. But when he seeks out the memories, he can’t quite reach them.

_These are freesias. They symbolize--_

Ten years past.

Ten years now.

The past looks on, and so does the present, and they howl in grief as tragedy places her pieces on the chessboard, looking at each other from opposite sides of a war.

_\--trust and purity._

____

\-- _Like what I have with you?_

“Dylan?” she whispers, too broken to even look surprised. But the shock, oh, it reverberates.

_“Ren,”_ he murmurs.

____

  
  


She doesn’t register lifting up her sword. She doesn’t register planning on delivering a killing blow. But Lauren only understands that her body has reacted before her mind can as her sword meets Dylan’s heart - and stops mid-air as he clenches a hand around the metal like it’s nothing. A crack splits down the gold blade. 

Before she can do anything, Katoptris snaps in half before her eyes, in a clean break.

It rattles lowly on the marble floor.

It shouldn’t have been able to break. It shouldn’t have--

He’s forced to kneel as Kieran kicks him in the back, pressing a hand to his disgruntled white hair. It falls over his face, parted to one side, gray eyes scanning both his attackers - her partner, who currently looks as if he’s the one who’s been shot instead, and her, who is trembling wildly, the broken half and hilt of her shortsword still in both hands.

_“You,”_ Kieran hisses. 

“Dylan,” Lauren breathes. She can barely get any words out. “What - what are you--”

“Ren,” he says evenly, voice steady, but wavering with an undercurrent of emotion, almost as if he’s trying to tamper down on what he feels, “allow me to explain.”

_“You don’t get to explain anything,”_ Kieran shouts, knife at the back of his throat. _“What_ are you doing here?”

“If you two would just listen--”

“Kieran, what’s going on--”

“You want to know who he is?!” he exclaims, gesturing to Dylan. “I’ll tell you who he is. _He_ was the only companion I had in the Phantom Scythe’s former psych ward within the Foxglove Compound. And now he’s here, back from the _second floor,_ here to kill us all.”

“I don’t understand.” It’s all she can manage.

“Lauren.” There’s a sudden grief in his eyes. “For the more rebellious candidates, the Phantom Scythe had us first indoctrinated. And he - he was chosen for the second floor.”

_We were never allowed to go there. Put the pieces together. Dylan was taken to the second floor. The second floor was--_

“No,” she chokes out. “No, no, you’re not--”

“Lauren,” Dylan pleads. “Listen to me.”

“You _dare_ make me listen to you when you’ve _killed_ my uncle, Dylan?!” she screeches. She is close to snapping. She can feel it. “Or should I call you the _Leader?”_

The name drops like another bomb in between the three of them.

_“Bien-aimee.”_ Kieran’s hand is steady. “You know him; I won’t ask. Only let me be the one to--”

“I won’t,” she states firmly, hitching Katoptris’s broken half in the air. “I can’t let you kill him. We need him alive. I can interrogate him. I can tell if he’s lying about anything.”

“I have never lied to you, Lauren,” Dylan says, and looks into her eyes, gray into gold. A sudden heaviness spreads through her veins, and she drops Katoptris, as if compelled to. “Please. I know what I have done. Only let me explain myself. I’m not the Leader--”

“Liar,” spits Kieran. “Lauren, he’s lying, I would know--”

“He’s not, I can’t detect a lie!”

“Do you trust me or not?”

_Do you trust me or not?_

“I--”

Too late. Smoke flies in front of them as Dylan throws down a minor explosive, nothing harmful, just enough to distract. When Lauren waves away the fog, Kieran stumbles towards her, both of them clinging to each other for stability.

“He’s gone.”

“I know.” She nearly trips on a crack, her heel shifting to the side. “We need to get out of here--”

“You’re not going anywhere,” thunders a voice behind Kieran, and out of the smoke moves Will, suit ruined, soot covering his blonde hair, a gun pointed directly at her partner’s head. A click behind her reverberates throughout her bones, and she doesn’t have to look behind her to know it’s Kym. It hurts more than it should. “You’re both going into custody as the Purple Hyacinth and the Scarlet Queen.”

“Will, we need them.” There’s no coldness in her voice, only practicality. “If we’re going to find the Leader - which both of them know - we need them as information sources. I’ve already sent the rest of the patrol to the medic team outside. As much as I don’t like to admit it, Lauren has a point. We need to get out of here.”

“All four of us can claim sanctuary at my apartment,” Kieran says lowly. “Neither her nor I will lay a finger on you.”

“And you think we’d fall for that trap?” Kym bites out, but something wobbles in her voice. When Lauren attempts to look at her - she looks back, almost slightly sympathetic.

“We’re all desperate. There’s no other way.” He’s pleading now. “I’m not asking you to trust me or her. I’m simply asking for your cooperation.” 

She sighs. “Will - let’s go. And take back your gun.”

“But--”

_“Now.”_ Suddenly, Lauren feels herself being lifted up by a slender figure - Kym has slung her arm over her shoulders, holding her up. “You’re poisoned?”

The sergeant has always been observant. “My immune system can hold off the worst of the effects.”

“You still need an antidote.” She nods towards Will. “Your father knows a pharmacist. Can you get something by tonight?”

Her old friend won’t even meet her eyes. The way he treats her now is even worse than Kieran. “I can try.”

“Fine with me.” She gestures sharply to Kieran. “Take us there.”

____

It’s all over the news - the papers, the radio. But all four of them don’t have the chance to register the gravity of what has happened, because by the time they leave the mansion and travel to Kieran’s house discreetly, the snowstorm hovering above Ardhalis decides to finally let go its burdens, burying neighborhoods in swaths of white as they lock themselves in.

The sickening feeling in her stomach doesn’t leave, even as she collapses on the couch, watching Kym and Will search the apartment. Try as they might, they won’t find anything except Kieran’s katana and other belongings. It’s then he decides to speak, when she’s busied pouring bitter antidote down her throat.

“We could work together, if only to end the Phantom Scythe’s reign - and Viper Territory’s.”

It’s Will who loses it first.

“And you’d think we’d ever trust you?!” roars Will, angrier than she’s ever seen him, a life’s worth of pain and pent-up rage at the world flowing out of him. “The man who’s been Ardhalis’s bane for decades? A living nightmare? A murderer - a _monst—”_

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as a loud _crack_ sounds throughout the room. It’s only after Lauren sees the red bruise blooming on his left cheek and his head sharply veered to the right that she realizes she’s slapped him, and hard.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t let her raised hand fall. She has been through _too much_ to let all these people around her toss them around like garbage. 

“You will not call him that ever again,” she says dangerously quietly, voice a trembling baritone. “Is that clear, Will? Whatever you say about him, it’s applicable to me too. So don’t treat him like some sort of beast when I’m just as terrible. Do you _understand?”_

He turns his head slowly to look at her. She nearly flinches from the cold hatred in his eyes. “I see which side you’re on now. His.”

“Will.” Kym grabs his hand, pulling him into the kitchen. “We need to talk. _Now.”_

____

  
“How long?”

“I--”

“How _long,_ Kym? How long did you think they were Lune?”

“A while. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.” Kym’s hazel eyes seek out his own. “I’m sorry for that. But as much as I don’t trust them, they’re our best shot at--”

“At what?!”

“At defeating the Phantom Scythe,” she throws back. “You know that. I don’t like to admit it, but Lauren had a point about structures becoming shackles. As lieutenant and sergeant - we only got anything done outside the law.”

“Even if the law is broken, we can’t just do this,” Will states firmly, the light above a distilled sapphire, painting them both in swaths of darkness pooling at their feet, at the edges of their fingertips, what once was locked now seeping out through cracks. “We can’t do this, Kym. Live as vigilantes permanently - team up with _assassins?_ We can’t possibly.”

“I’m just saying we have to fix it. We wouldn’t have to do this forever.” She reaches out her hands, beseeching. “Will, we have to do this. Don’t you trust me?”

_Don’t you trust me._

“You don’t get it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, crumpling against the wall as he talks. “You have your status. I have mine, my family, my reputation to uphold--”

“This isn’t about me so much as it is about you!” Kym’s voice cracks in two, some unexplainable grief crashing into her chest. “Ever since the Academy, you’ve always thought of others. Never yourself. You weren’t able to mourn your mother properly because you kept thinking of your father and the lieutenant you wanted to be - you let it bury you, Will! You let it kill you day by day. And I,” she breaks off, the sound of his name honey on her tongue, “had to break you in order for you to see that. But still. Even now, it’s never you. _It’s never you.”_

_“It’s not about what I want.”_ Now he’s the one yelling. “You _still_ don’t get that.”

“I get all of it!” Velvet roses and oud wood tickling at his nose, warmth pressed to his chest. Her with her hands at his collar, tugging him forward, begging.

“What do you want, Will?” she whispers. “What do you _want?”_

_Perfection. To fix it all. To fix mom, to please Father, status, a moment to breathe._ They all leave his mind for one brief second as a sharper voice speaks. _You._

He closes his mouth.

“I see,” she says, removing her hands from his shirt. Will tries not to feel the regret he does when she leaves, silently crossing the threshold back into Kieran’s apartment.

____

She watches the snow fall silently, coating everything in a silent storm, wind howling against the glass. It’s fitting, really, for the chaos that has become her life. She knew the storm would come someday. 

And now it has.

So Lauren merely lays her head against the windowpane, numbly watching the snowflakes trail past, and tries to not let her grief bury her six feet under - unlike when it did, only ten years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: thank you so, so much for 200+ kudos and 4,000+ hits. I don't know how we got here - but we're almost close to beating 'workplace conversations'? What? _H o w ?_ I guess what they say is true about writers - the only one you're up against is yourself.
> 
> This was a rollercoaster to write, as you can imagine. Anyhow - yes, Dylan is alive, for real, and I can't believe I kept my mouth shut about this for as long as I did. *jazz hands*
> 
> Chapters 29-33, specifically, amongst the chapters proceeding this are some of my favorite chapters to ever exist - and I don't mean this lightly. I'm trying to find the words here without giving away every single trick in my already-thick book.
> 
> I've stopped considering Scheherazade to be a simple self-indulgent fic, and begun thinking of it as what it has come to be in my head and on paper: a story. Again, I couldn’t have been where I am today without the canon, and the sheer brilliance of Soph and Eph, who have inspired us all as writers. But this is where the real challenge begins for me. I’ve spent two months juggling around with story drafts, dialogue, going through confrontations with the main four’s trauma in more scenarios than there are people, doing research on subversions and inversions and tried-and-true story tropes. I’ve looked through this fic’s plot again, and again, and again. I’ve delved into the canon more than once, asking myself what each character and each plot thread would want. And then I’ve asked myself what I would want.
> 
> After this chapter, Scheherazade goes through an arc about - simply put - reparations. And I’ve wrung blood from stone, metaphorically speaking, trying to get this right. I couldn’t care less about stats.
> 
> I want to beat myself as a writer.
> 
> I only hope I can.


	29. resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who are you?_
> 
> _I don’t know,_ she thinks numbly, as she tucks the broken sword back into the cloth, and starts hobbling towards the coat rack. _I don’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the following materials: **hinted-at unethical psychological torture, manipulation, and medical experimentation.** However, there are some things even I don’t feel comfortable writing, and as fully detailing the events within a certain character’s backstory involving all three mentioned above would bump this fic up to an M rating - I am sticking to merely _implied_ mentions of such things, but will hopefully give you enough to piece the threads together.

_“Look,” says Rachel Sinclair, laughing as she adjusts the cloche hat on her head of crimson hair. Alexander turns where his wife is gesturing, and breaks into identical laughter as they wave at the third-story frosted window, barely revealing the head of a young girl waving goodbye, white nightgown spilling over her, white flower petals in the shape of chiffon over a portrait of innocence._

_“We’ll be back soon!” Alexander calls, adjusting his suit. The driver is looking at them with a pointed look, and he claps a hand over his shoulder, causing him to startle slightly._

_“She’s anxious,” he says, gesturing to their daughter. “You know - little girls - they always_ — _”_

_“I’m aware,” the driver says, thin-lipped. “I’ve to escort you soon.”_

_“Right then,” Alexander says jovially. “Rachel!”_

Lauren can only watch helplessly from the second-story window as she sees them enter the car. Abel Sandman closes the door as he shuts himself in, missing fourth finger now visible to her like a beacon in the night. Panic swells in her as she bangs on the glass, auburn hair now tumbling down her shoulders in sharp rivulets. She is in a dress of gold and red, tainted red, a legacy tainted. A legacy gone wrong.

_“Mom!”_ she screeches. _“Dad, get out, get out!”_

They do not listen. The car starts.

_“You’re not supposed to go, you’re going to get killed, they’re going to make it seem like an accident, please--”_ Her voice breaks off, and she can no longer tell which version of her is speaking: the child and woman in one, both pleading for mercy. “Please--”

They were only supposed to be gone for a day; supposed to be back after Allendale. They were not.

_Come back._

_Come back, please--_

____

She bolts awake, gasping for air, choking on nothing. Lauren claws at the pillows, legs kicking at the sheets. When she looks around, clamping her hand on her mouth to quiet herself, no one has awakened yet. Kieran had given her his bed; he sleeps only a few feet away from her on a low futon. Kym and Will are asleep in the living room, this much she knows. It’s easy to spot them from behind the cracked door of his bedroom. They’re side by side, on the couch and on the floor, hands drifting towards each other. Outside, the snowstorm has turned into a light snowfall, icing over the streets.

Lauren stumbles towards the bundle of cloth she’s hidden underneath the bedframe, wincing as a bolt of pain shoots up her leg as she bends into a low sitting position. It takes a while for her to fumble with the knots she’d tied in a mess yesterday, stained with the blood she’d long washed off of her.

She doesn’t want to know what she looks like in Katoptris’s still-brilliant gaze. The two broken halves of the shortsword look up at her, and her hand moves instinctively to grasp the hilt, holding up the broken section of the jagged blade up to her face. Her vision fails her - a distorted version of her eyes look back up at her. They’re dim, holding barely any light in them. A mere mockery of the person she used to be.

But then again, who was she, really?

_Who are you?_

_I don’t know,_ she thinks numbly, as she tucks the broken sword back into the cloth, and starts hobbling towards the coat rack. _I don’t know._

____

Kym Ladell is, apparently, despite Will’s impression of her thus far, an early riser. When he shakes off the remnants of sleep, running a hand through his mussed-up hair, the first thing to greet him in the morning are the slightly bitter but poignant notes of jasmine tea. It’s barely six, judging from the clock in the kitchen, and she’s already up in yesterday’s cleaned dress shirt and pants, barefoot and pouring hot water into a mug.

Judging from the clock in _Kieran White’s_ kitchen.

Yesterday’s memories ram into his consciousness. He gets to his feet, a little unsteady at first, but manages to sneak up on her without her noticing. But before Will can get the better of her, he recalls what had happened the day of Harvey’s death, and instead lightly knocks on the padded wall of the kitchen. “You’re awake?”

“Oh!” She startles, but only slightly, blinking in surprise. “I didn’t see you there.”

At a loss for words suddenly, he nods towards the mugs of tea in her hand. “You made tea?”

“It’s a habit. My parents used to do it for me in the morning when I was little. For both me and my--” She breaks off, handing him a mug instead. “I know you like coffee, but--”

“I actually don’t.” He takes it. “...Thanks.”

It’s as good as an apology as he’s going to give for now. He can’t seem to find the words with her, and especially not so soon - not after last night’s argument.

As if on cue, Kieran comes into the kitchen, instantly breaking the ice between the two. He’s the only one in new clothing - glasses missing, hair in a messy bun, donning a simple blouse and trousers, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. What strikes him, however, is the alarm on the assassin’s face.

“Lauren’s missing,” he says, clearly panicked.

“She couldn’t have gone far,” remedies Kym, but Will notes how she seems to shrink back from Kieran. “Did you check the rest of the apartment?”

“I did. But she took one of my coats. It concerns me - she could’ve gone out in public.”

“And do you really blame her?” Kym asks, crossing her arms. “You’ve practically locked all four of us in here.”

“I didn’t want this, and I am _very aware_ that neither of you wanted this either,” he sighs, exasperated. “Look, the Scythe may very well be out for your families after the ball. If you went back - you could be at risk. I’m not forcing anything. All I want now is your help to look for her.”

“She’ll be fine,” mutters Will, turning away from both of them.

“Will--”

“She has _your_ skillset, after all,” he spits, gesturing to Kieran. When he turns to Kym, she flinches. “Lauren’s tougher than rocks and the most stubborn person I know. She’ll be fine.”

“Look, I don’t like him and I don’t trust her, just like you, but can you not be selfish?” Kym bursts out, making him reel back in shock. “She’s missing. We need her. Unfortunately, Kieran has a point. We need to stick together if we even want the slightest chance of defeating Dylan - the Leader,” she corrects, looking down. “You knew him too, didn’t you?”

“Not as well as Lauren did.”

“This is going to break her,” Kym murmurs softly.

_She already broke our trust, and you just want to--_

“Look, Will,” she says, placing her hands against his chest in a reassuring gesture - or at least something similar to one. “I know she hurt you by lying. And she hurt me, too. But she never betrayed us by working for the Phantom Scythe. Both her and Kieran went through a lot. And in the end, they wanted to stop them. It doesn’t make up for the mistakes they’ve made as Lune, but it counts for something, alright?”

“She didn’t lie,” interjects Kieran, leaning against the wall. “Lauren never lied about her intentions.”

“First off, you’re her friend--”

“I am, but that doesn’t apply to her now. She never told you about her ability, did she?” He meets both their gazes evenly. “Lauren can detect lies. Any lie, even if that person doesn’t give away any signs. She detests them to the bone. And she may have manipulated you--” he breaks off, “--as I have, but I know she never once lied about her affections for both of you.”

Silence stretches between them.

“We’ll help you find her,” Will says at last, “but only because you two are assets. You make one wrong move; she makes one wrong move--”

“I’ve got it,” he says somberly. “I know where to start looking.”

____

  
  


Greychapel is the same. It doesn’t change, and she likes that about the neighborhood. Unlike the upper-class districts, where construction is going on nearly every second of every day, here, the dingy and dim surroundings are a sight for sore eyes. It tells her that underneath all the wealth and splendor Ardhalis loves to display - the wealth that she’d let get to her head - the city is broken at the core, poison seeping into the cracks.

The only difference now is that Kieran’s too-big coat flies in the wind behind her, clasped over her body with gold buttons over olive fabric. It smells like him; sandalwood and musky cologne. She allows herself only one small moment of reprieve, burying her nose in the collar of it. But the snow continues to fall, and she lifts her head to the sky, feeling snow tumble down onto her face, freeze her cracked lips.

Dylan had come from Greychapel.

Maybe that’s why she’s come back here, after all. The Rosenthals weren’t a wealthy family, but had managed to make it just enough so that they could move into the lower side of the 11th precinct. It was in a florist’s shop where they’d first met. And from there, weekly visits, lugging her family along. Helping him and his father set up shop in areas where they were needed, flower petals drifting in the wind to accompany childhood innocence.

“Where did we go wrong?” she asks softly.

No one answers.

____

  
  


**_NOVEMBER 13TH, XX17_ **

  
  


_“Dylan?”_

_Someone was calling his name. He wanted to reach out to her, but a hand snatched his own away, and tugged him back. Somehow, the fire had not reached him, because the men surrounding them had blasted away a part of the train station clear - clear enough for a car to burst through; as their escape route. His father looked down at him, warmly, the emotion in his eyes not at all a lie._

_So why did he feel scared?_

_“Dad, she’s looking for me, I have to go back!”_

_“They’ll rescue her, son. Don’t worry about it.” Marcus kissed the top of his head. “We both have to go somewhere, okay? Lauren will be alright. The police will arrive soon.”_

_“We’re not going with them?” He was supposed to come back for her. He had told her not to miss him so much._

_“No.” His father smiled down at him. “We’re not going with them. The revolution has already begun.”_

_“This him, Rosenthal?”_

_“Yes, Dylan is indeed my son, and no, you will not talk to him in that manner, Goodfellow,” his father said, picking him up in his arms. The men around them looked impatient - one man in particular near the car seemed to sneer at both of them. “Look, I believe in the cause for a greater future as much as you do, but you needn’t refer to my son like that.”_

_“Apologies. Come with us.” He motioned for Marcus to follow, and so they went, Dylan first, his father second. He blinked in confusion at the other children in the back of the large car. If he’d been paying a little more attention, he would’ve seen a small boy with ocean-blue eyes._

_But he did not, and so the car drove off._

____

Dakan Rhysmel hunches over the papers littering his desk. Really, it wasn’t supposed to go this horribly, but he supposes it could’ve been much, much worse. The security team had prevented another Allendale - but they hadn’t stopped mass casualties. Their sergeant and lieutenant had disappeared into thin air, leaving Randall in charge. And supposedly, the Leader’s forces had invaded Redcliff’s mansion, seizing power from Viper Territory - once again unifying the Phantom Scythe.

Leave it up to one man to foil Dakan’s plans.

But if he wants to be truly specific to where it all began, the answers sit right in front of him. Tristan Sinclair’s death had been the last straw for his patience to break.

And Alexander and Rachel Sinclair’s deaths had been the one to begin it.

_Dakan, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the condition of this city. We want to aid it as best as we can. I’ve already talked to Rachel about it, and my mother doesn’t quite like the direction our organization is heading in--_

_\--Social justice, I assume?_

_\--You and I both know there’s a lack of that these days. We want to change that. I’m aware you work for the monarchy, but really, don’t you think it has its flaws?_

The monarchy was a broken system.

It was why when Alexander had approached him that day, it was all he could do to hide his everlasting humiliation for having contributed to the broken system - just not in the way Alexander had suspected.

_\--They serve the rich, the interests of those that benefit them, and push aside the lower classes - the lower classes they have contributed to._

_I know they do. I’ve seen the poverty rate in this city skyrocket over the years._

_And that Lizbeth Aveasther--_

He had wanted change. Change brought by a symbol of justice, an everlasting symbol, beyond any one man, under the cover of the night. It had been a pain to go behind the monarchy’s back and start recruiting men, men who believed in a better society. But he had not seen beyond the seemingly innocent desire for justice. Underneath that selflessness he’d seen in initial recruits had been a desire for violence and bloodshed.

_What will you call yourselves?_

Alexander had looked towards the garden then, while Dakan had looked to the dark.

_The Snapdragon._

_The Phantom Scythe,_ reads the paper up at him. _Created by D. R as a means of discreetly weakening royal power and dispensing resources to the lower-class districts in need. Said operation is not meant to resort to violent means--_

He had wanted change, and now was paying the price for it.

____

**_NOVEMBER 14TH, XX17_ **

  
  


_The screams would not stop._

_Dylan tried closing his ears, but the screams kept reverberating throughout the halls. As soon as they’d started, they stopped, the childish shrieks coming to an end. A team of doctors exited a door within the psych ward, all peeling white wallpaper, white walls, iron bars on the walls almost like prison bars._

_“Test subject 7 is resisting current procedures, but in time, they should adjust to--”_

_He couldn’t stand it any longer. Dylan bolted for the exit, nearly bumping into the group of adults. He was still in the white uniform - white, white, all white - that they’d put on the more ‘resistant’ subjects, subjects they’d deemed problematic. Oddly enough, outside of the compound, a garden lay, with wooden rafters swinging ivy down onto the sunlit grass. He caught his breath as he stumbled outside, hands on his knees._

_Would they do that to him?_

_Would they--_

_Oh, Lauren. What had happened to her, and the others, and his father? After the car ride over, Marcus had bid him farewell, but had disappeared, too--_

_“Are you okay there?”_

_He looked up. A boy about two years older than him blinked quizzically down at him, and Dylan almost yelled in fear. Bruises stained his tan skin, and in his hands rested a pencil and sketchbook._

_“I - I’m so sorry--”_

_“Hey, it’s okay,” the other boy said, nervously laughing. But there was a wariness in his turquoise eyes. “I’m a patient too. They’re bad, right?”_

_Dylan clamped his mouth shut, willing himself not to look at the bruises. “What did they do to you?”_

_He smiled somberly. “Things you don’t want to know about. I’m due for the Foxglove Compound soon. This’ll be my last day here.”_

_“Glad to see you’re escaping.”_

_“I wouldn’t call it escaping.”_

_“Right.” Dylan looked down at the boy as he perched himself on a wooden chair, beginning to draw._

_“You can look if you want. I don’t bite.”_

_Daringly, Dylan did. He was sketching a lovely portrait of the flowers in front of him - brilliant purple hyacinths blooming out of a bush, their stems waving in the wind. “They’re lovely.”_

_“Aren’t they?” He smiled a bit, but it was strained. “I’m Kieran, by the way.”_

_“Kieran,” Dylan repeated, testing it out on his tongue. “Hey, Kieran?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Why are you always drawing?” He broke off. “I mean, I’ve seen you around before. I don’t mean to sound creepy! I just…”_

_But Kieran didn’t grimace, or show any signs of revulsion. Instead, he simply smiled down at the paper. “Well...have you ever felt that tinge of warmth when you see those subtle moments in life that remind you humanity can be beautiful? I draw them so I can keep it.” He held up the paper. “This sense of humanity...I don’t ever want to lose it.”_

_“I don’t, too.” The admission came even as a surprise for Dylan himself. “I don’t ever want to become like one of them. I promise I won’t.”_

_“Bold promise.”_

_“I do!” He slammed a fist into his other hand. “I mean it!”_

_“I’ll hold you to that promise, then.” Kieran beamed up at him. “We’ll never become their monsters.”_

____

**_DECEMBER 12TH, XX17_ **

  
  


_“FASTER!”_

_Dylan pulled back in disgust as his opponent fell onto the ground, clutching at his ribs. He’d wounded his sparring partner with the staff he held in his hands. On cue, the doctor hit him from behind, causing him to bend over._

_“This candidate’s the weakest of the five,” he snarls. “How are we to make this one into anything suitable for the next Leader?”_

_“You know, it’s a miracle he didn’t perish in the psych ward--”_

_“--Truly is--”_

_The noise._

_He could never block out the noise._

_____

  
  


“Nothing.” Kym shakes her head, dumbfounded. “She isn’t near Sinclair Manor, or even in the 11th precinct. We might have to go down to the lower districts to find her.”

“We couldn’t track her if we tried,” Kieran says, coming out of the shadows. He covers his head with a low cap - all three of them are in disguise; holding flashlights to drive out the darkening sky. It’s already close to evening; they’d searched for hours to no avail. “I know a couple places she might head to, but I doubt she’d be there. Clearly, Lauren wanted to erase her trail.”

“Seriously? You know her best and she still manages to best you?”

“She’s always been able to best me,” he says, and if she didn’t know better, she’d have said the fondness in his voice was fake. Even if they weren’t dating for real - _something_ is there. “Always.”

“Nothing,” Will calls out, coming over to the two of them. “Lower districts it is, then.”

“Have you considered she wants to be left alone?” Kym demands. “If she went out wandering, she’ll probably come back.”

“We can’t risk that chance.”

She crosses her arms, huffing. “I hate it when one of the worst people I know makes a really great point.”

“Good to know I’m just _one_ of the worst people you know.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the sergeant drawls, cocking her hip as she glances over at Kieran. “You’re at the top of the list, _archivist.”_

His mouth twitches downwards, but he doesn’t say anything else as she leads them out of the alleyway.

“I apologize for manipulating you,” he says softly.

“I know you’re sorry. I just don’t care,” Kym says, a sharp frankness in her tone as they walk side by side, Will trailing at the rear. “You’ve probably done a thousand infiltration missions like this one. The only difference now is that the mission has gone awry and you’re forced to work with us. Sun and moon together at last. You should know, White--” she’s leaning towards him, whispering in his ear almost gently, “--that the sun makes the moon shine. And without it - it would be _nothing.”_

“Kym--”

“Shut it,” she says, pushing him forward as she slows her pace to match Will’s. “You know her so well? Lead the way.”

____

Belladonna had once operated out of this factory. The old viper symbol is still engraved on the door as she kicks it down, but the warehouse is free of grinding gears and metallic scents. All that rests now are a bunch of dusty tarps over machinery, the entire factory free of any weaponry. Even if Bella had been bested; she wasn’t just going to leave her dirty business behind.

Lauren whips out a small knife, picking at the lock on one of the side doors. It falls away, rusty hinges creaking to reveal a closet bare of any rifles, guns, or swords, for that matter. She can tell by the imprints they leave on the walls.

Why’d she come here, if she’d known that there was no more hope for another weapon to be found in time?

Losing Katoptris was like having something ripped out of her chest. She suspects Kym would feel the same way if her pocketwatch or her own guns were taken away from her.

And yet, she came here in the hopes of finding a replacement.

A low laugh echoes in the underbelly of the factory as she grips her forehead, shaking her head.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing anymore.

_Let there be justice._

_Justice indeed,_ she thinks to herself. _Justice indeed._

____

“Careful!”

He barely moves fast enough to help Kym from slipping and falling on black ice. As soon as she’s back up, however, she struggles in his grip - then recognizes who looks back down at her: blonde hair, ice-blue eyes. She shouldn’t settle in his arms, but she does for a brief second, then stumbles back awkwardly, coughing into her gloved palm.

“Thanks, Will.”

“Anytime.” He raises an eyebrow. “No more _Williame?”_

“Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

Kieran looks at them both with a carefully monitored expression. “We’re close to Greychapel. She might be near here. I know the area.”

“Of course you do,” she says brusquely. Above them, the clock chimes eight, and out of habit, she looks down at her own pocketwatch. It glitters gold in the light, still stuck on the same time. It may be her imagination working things, but a light crack seems to run down the middle.

She should really let go of the past.

She can’t just yet.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Will,” she flat-out lies, tucking the clock back into her pocket. “Let’s go. Before I freeze to death out being so long.”

“Do you want my scarf?”

“Now I know why you attract so many women.”

He splutters as she waves him off, igniting her own flashlight as she veers into the darkness, alone. There’s nothing around here as usual, but as the three of them round a corner, Kym spots a gaggle of children huddled next to each other for warmth, and her heart tightens in her chest.

“I--”

“I know,” Kieran says softly. “I know. It’s a disgrace.”

“Things shouldn’t be like this. All that time in the Phantom Scythe - they must have done something - _you never once helped them?”_ she exclaims, in barely-held back fury. “Even as they pumped it into your head that you were serving, I don’t know, a noble cause.”

“I have.” The truth reaches her ears. “But it’s never enough.”

She falls abruptly silent. This man - this man who she can’t get a read on is getting on her nerves, and that’s saying something. It’s usually her who irritates everyone else’s, and now, he aggravates her like nothing else.

“Fine.”

As if reading her mind, he speaks up. “Lauren enlisted me to...help her find out about her past at one point,” he admits, as the three of them walk side by side. “It’s not my place to tell you her secrets, but I will tell you this much: the Phantom Scythe started out as an organization that did want to help the people, until it turned violent. Most likely because it was created by someone in the monarchy who wasn’t aware of their actions. And the Snapdragon - a socialist group a few years back - attempted to stop them, and failed. But they themselves resorted to violence at the end. In this story, there is no one true savior. It’s up to all of us to rectify the mistakes of the past. The true enemy lives up in an ivory tower.” He glances at both of them. “I wouldn’t have brought both of you along for nothing. You see the uglier half of society as I have.”

____

The manor is alive, but not really.

She knows Lucy and the others are still maintaining the house, wondering why their ward and lady have not come back yet. It almost fills her with regret as she stares up at Sinclair Manor, hair dusted with snow, as she leans against a fogged-up street pole.

She can’t go back in. Not yet.

There’s nothing left for her in there - or at least, something that she doesn’t want to find out about just yet.

If only she’d just been a bit braver, and gone in, and let Lucy fix her a cup of cocoa, and guide her up to the library where answers await.

Answers she will eventually discover, but not today.

_My little daisy, if you are reading this, it means I have failed._

Lauren turns away from her childhood home, weathering the storm.

_But it does not mean you have to._

_If there is one truth I have discovered over the years, it is that the world is harsh and cruel. We all fall eventually, the wayward ones._

_But what is broken can be healed, and what is lost will be found._

____

  
  


**_MARCH 6TH, XX23_ **

  
  


_“Convince me, son.” The doctor leaned forward, holding a bright red apple in his hands. “Go on. Convince me this is green. Lie directly to my face.”_

_Dylan brushed his hair out of his forehead. It had grown long and unruly over the years. “I can’t.”_

_“You can.” There was a fortitude in the older man’s voice. “Do it.”_

_“And if I can’t?”_

_He shrugged. “You undergo reconditioning again. We’ll do this as long as it takes. Now tell me the apple is green.”_

_We will teach you how to persuade anything and anyone, they had crooned. Our new Leader, come to bring this city to justice. You have defeated your competition in battle. You are the worthy one._

_He stared into the doctor’s eyes._

_“The apple you are holding is green.”_

_And when a slow smile appeared on the man’s face, Dylan’s scowl only grew deeper._

____

She appears in front of them like a ghost. It’s Kym who notices first, pointing out the familiar face and eyes. Even if her hair is a tangled mess, sweeping over her dull golden eyes. Even if the coat she wears is far too big for her, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. What Kym doesn’t expect to happen next, however, is for Kieran to run forward as if chased by a hundred men, colliding into her with the force of a star, nearly lifting her up in his arms. Even from this distance, she can tell the assassin has lost weight.

It’s something akin to pity in her chest that makes her walk up to Lauren and grip onto her hand tightly.

“You worried us sick,” she says. “Even Will, who won’t admit it for now - but seriously, just taking off like that in the middle of the morning? At _six?”_

Lauren blinks down at her. “You were worried about me?”

“I--” She stumbles on her words.

“It’s alright.” Lauren smiles thinly. “You don’t have to lie. I can tell.”

“You can’t just worry _me_ sick and wander off like that. Kym’s right,” Kieran insists, shaking her shoulders. “Where did you go?! We were looking for you all day.”

“Nowhere of interest,” she says, shrugging. She attempts to meet Will’s eyes, but he looks away as soon as she does. Kym looks between the two of them, tensing as it becomes painfully clear of the broken bond between the two. “I’m fine. I swear. I just have one more place to stop by and that’s it.”

“Are you _serious--”_

“I mean it. Trust me.” She grins up weakly at Kieran. “I’ll be back by ten. And...uh…” Lauren looks nervously between the three of them. “Try not to kill each other over dinner. Kieran won’t poison you. I made him swear it.”

“No promises,” Kym says sarcastically, but it doesn’t come out as bitter as before. “You’re giving me anxiety, but I’ll comply. No headshots, Will.”

“I’m not the one who shoots first and asks questions later!”

“Yeah, yeah. Inside. _Now.”_

____

  
  


The Phantom Scythe likes high-class events. And it’s as high class as it’s going to get down at the old Golden Clover, where the cigar smoke in the air is thicker than the memories that haunt these walls. She finds Flemmings easily, in a lone booth, sipping at some warm type of cider. When he sees her, he clearly looks at her with disgust.

“You,” he says, gesturing with his drink, “look absolutely _terrible.”_

“Thanks for the compliment,” she says, sitting down across from him.

“I’ve got a guest, Scarlet Queen--”

She kicks him under the table. He barely flinches as her heel lands on his shin, but pain clearly shows in his eyes. “It’s Lauren to you. And you know that’s my name.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, narrowing his eyes at her. “Yeah, I do. You were the kid I brought in that day at Allendale. You’re not as much of a crybaby as you used to be.”

She smiles sharply. “I had all the tears taken out of me one by one.”

“Harsh. So? What do you want?” He gestures to the waiter for another drink. “You’re very angry, you know. You look like you could kill. But you can’t, can you?” Flemmings raises a brow at the tension in her clenched hands. “Heard about Redcliff’s ball. **Sorry about your sword.** ”

“Answers,” she states plainly. “I want answers. Is Dylan Rosenthal truly the Leader?!”

Flemmings stares at her. And then, slowly, he begins to laugh.

“Figured it out, haven’t you? All the evidence you collected on your convicts. Thought it might take you a while. The Rosenthals were involved for a reason. Spot-on.”

“I--”

“No,” he says firmly, leaning forward. “Now it’s your turn to listen, _Lauren._ You’re angry. You’re so, so angry and desperate that you came here looking for a fight, not answers. You aren’t thinking straight. And do you want to know how I know? You don’t know what you want. All you are right now is your anger. You’ve let one thing and one thing alone become you.” He points directly at her. “You give a man a taste of darkness, he succumbs to the shadows not long after. You turn a city into a battleground, war is all they know. You give a girl questions - and all she longs for is revenge.”

“You know nothing about me,” she hisses.

“If I don’t, then,” Flemmings asks, “then what do you want?”

“To bring this city to justice, to protect my— _”_

“No, no no.” Flemmings waves his hand around, cigar smoke nearly suffocating her alive. “None of that with me. I can see it in those eyes of yours. Underneath all that - you’re just a little girl in a mask who doesn’t know what the _hell_ she wants. So don’t come down here trying to prove something to me. You’re not one of us. You’ve never been one of us. You were Ardhalis’s darling girl until it all went wrong! Beloved and innocent. Darkness may run through you - but it sure isn’t your nature, Sinclair.”

As detestable as Flemmings is - he makes a point. She had come here looking for a fight. And now he’s good as defused a ticking time bomb.

“Go.” He snaps his fingers. “Before you cause a scene.”

For once in her life, she obeys.

____

  
  


Lauren creeps into the bedroom, careful not to make any noise. But Kieran senses her anyways. He can always tell when she’s around - it’s like the air changes, palpably, as it parts to let in the shadows sing.

“Sorry,” she says, holding his coat in her hands. “I had to borrow it for the day.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, taking it from her. That look still hasn’t faded from her eyes; they look haunted, as if she hasn’t quite stepped out of the memory of the Redcliff ball. “Do you need anything?” _Anything, and I mean anything, because I’d give anything, too, for you to stop looking like that, for the light to come back into your eyes. Because I know that look. I used to have it too._

She shakes her head sharply. “Not really. I’m - I’ll just head to bed.”

He nods. “Do you want privacy tonight?”

“No.” Before he can turn around, she pulls him towards her, blinking at the sudden gesture in surprise. Slowly, her hand skirts down his arm to hold his, gently pressing into his palm. She is so, _so_ incredibly tiny in his hold.

“I need--” Lauren breaks off, looking at him.

“Stay. Please.”

He knows this word, too. Short form for: _stay with me and make the nightmares disappear. Stay with me and make everything else disappear. I remember too, when you collapsed against me that day, when we were but teenagers, and held each other as the world crumbled around us._

“Okay.” He grips her hand tighter, interlocking their fingers together. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

So when she doesn’t let go of his hand and tugs him to his bed, he lets her. And when she takes the right side and he the left, both of them pressed up against each other, older and taller, but still managing to fit together like puzzle pieces, foreheads barely touching as they breathe in each other’s scent, he allows her to. It’s Lauren who moves forward first, burying her head in his chest as she wraps her arms around him. He holds her back, tighter, as if he can shelter her from the world.

And when they drift off, neither of them wake before the sun rises, hand in hand.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never underestimate the power of comments and kudos, because they turn on your resident writer’s Maximum Override mode and make them churn out an entire chapter in a day as she cries while reading your comments. Anyways.
> 
> Yes, Dylan has the power of persuasion, and yes, he can nullify Lauren’s ability. All will be revealed in due time. For now, though: LAUREN FINALLY MOVED IN WITH KIERAN. THREE CHEERS.


	30. recoronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were all forced to be something, little daisy,” drawls Eurydice, one foot on her chest. “And that is why we must grow despite it all, you and I. Girls with thorns around their hearts and blades for fingertips. We crack, and we bend, but we do not _bow._ We are at _no one’s mercy.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to start off with the fact that I’ve literally put you all through the wringer for the past two chapters. Apologies, but not really. Now that that’s cleared up...not to give too much away, but I’m proud of this one.
> 
> This chapter deals with the following materials: **mentions of past trauma, depression, explorations of PTSD and grief (in a healthy setting), and the experience of a PTSD recovery period - or at least, the beginning of one.**
> 
> Additionally, I would like to add on one more thing: Eurydice is a major playing card in this chapter (the circus lady, yes), and in my head, I envision her to have Zelda Williams' voice (yes, THE Zelda Williams' who voiced Kuvira from TLOK and Hira in VLD). I feel like it gives a lot of depth to the character she plays. Carry on.

The strongest sense of deja vu attacks Lauren the moment she wakes. When she tilts her head up, she nearly bumps into Kieran’s chin as she does so, and realizes with an incoming sense of panic that she is very, _very_ close to him, to the point where her skin is flush against his chest. Slowly, she begins to extricate herself from his grasp - and ends up tumbling flat on the floor with a loud yell.

It takes Kieran but two seconds to shrug off sleep and poke his head above the bed, looking down at the redhead who has fallen onto the bedroom floor. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she groans up at him. “This was all part of the plan.”

“Ah, I see. So the plan was to fall on your face and scream on the way down, yes?”

Lauren responds to his comment by promptly flinging a pillow in his face. 

“Thanks for the welcoming gift, _darling!”_

____

Kym and Will, when not deciding to be the most awkward set of people Lauren’s ever seen around each other, are quite the well-oiled machine when it comes to working together. They make a remarkably efficient team in the kitchen - Will’s already frying eggs in the pan, while Kym is currently working Kieran’s coffee machine, the bitter smell of caffeine floating through the air, familiar to her as anything. When she sees Lauren, she waves her over, and the assassin attempts to pay no heed to the way Will’s posture grows tense in her presence.

“Had a fall?”

“So you heard,” she grumbles, tying her hair back into a ponytail. “It was nothing.”

“Sure thing, buddy.” Kym passes her a shredder and potato. “Mind peeling these for the hash?”

Lauren looks down at the objects in her hands, then back up at the sergeant. A slow realization spreads over Kym’s face. It doesn’t look that different from how a disappointed mother would look at their five-year-old daughter making a mess in the kitchen. “What?”

“You--” Kym rubs at her temples. “Do you not know how to peel potatoes?”

“I...never had to,” she admits, grimacing.

Her companion mutters something under her breath that suspiciously sounds like _rich people,_ and proceeds to lean over and starts to vigorously scrape off potato skins with the peeler with the same enthusiasm she’d have at a gun range. Lauren only catches half the rapid-fire commands she throws her way, but eventually starts - if not clumsily - shredding off potato skins alongside her. 

Breakfast doesn’t go smoothly as a whole, however, and she’d expected as much. When Kieran’s done doing a safety check around the house to prevent potential invasions, the silence stretching between the four of them could kill a man. Too many old grudges and lies lie between them, and she can sense it building until it breaks even now. Will is the worst of them all, however, barely saying a word to anyone but Kym - and it nearly splits her heart down the middle. Which is why when he makes to leave, she makes the decision to finally talk to him, running after him down the hallway, hesitating only for a second to spot a glimpse of Kieran’s drawings dangling from the walls within a seemingly-innocent art room. But she locks the door behind her; some things aren’t meant to be seen.

“Will,” she breathes, as she stands nervously in the doorway of the room he’s entered. “Can we talk?”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about,” he says coldly. 

“I lied,” she blurts out, blocking the entryway before he can leave. Both of them stare at each other, one of them more vulnerable than they’ve ever been in years. “I lied to you when I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry about it. Look - I don’t have any excuse for what I did. I just want you to know that I’ll make up for it in any way you want me to.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s a tawny amber in the dim daylight. “That’s not what I’m mad about.”

Out of all the things that she was expecting - a retaliation, a confession - she wasn’t expecting this.

“Then what exactly are you mad about?”

“That you didn’t come to me at all,” he says, crossing his arms. “Yes, I’m mad you lied. But I’m more mad about you keeping it in. Do you know how guilty I felt when I started to realize what you went through? It doesn’t excuse what you did. But now I’m beginning to understand. From what I’ve gathered, you saw killing as an answer to your past, didn’t you? And when your uncle got killed...you lost it. That rage - I’ve seen it before. I just don’t see how I could be so blind to your anger beforehand.”

And as always, he’s stolen the words from her mouth.

“I think that--” Will breaks off. “I think there was some part of me that actually wanted you to be gone for ten years. Ten years, and Ardhalis would live on without Lauren Sinclair - but it would live without the Scarlet Queen, too. I had this fantasy, this hope, of you being rescued and not needing to cling onto your hatred like a lifeline anymore. But it was an illusion.”

“We all deserved better,” Lauren shoots back, “but none of us get what we want.”

“We don’t,” he says grimly.

“You can’t fix me. I know that’s part of the reason why you wanted me to come to you. But you can’t fix me, Will.” Tentatively, she steps closer, close enough to touch his shoulder. He flinches, but doesn’t back away. “I don’t need a savior.”

“Then who helps you?”

She stares daggers into his eyes. “Then who helps _you?”_

Out of the corner of her eye, Lauren spots a flash of metal outside. Without thinking, she slams her body into his, tackling him to the ground - just in time for the bullets to ricochet through the wooden walls, hitting no flesh, scattering dust where they land. She peeks through the window, hands flying to her belt. Three trucks are stationed outside the apartment, and a familiar head of pink hair is in the front, belonging to a woman whose lips are curved in a cruel grin.

Stupid, _stupid_ snakes.

_“Kieran!”_

_“I know!”_ comes the response from the hallway; Lauren drags Will with her as they run out of the room, dodging another round of bullets. Her partner and Kym are crouched behind the couch, the latter with a gun in her hands. “Belladonna tracked us down. There are sewer exits near here that lead down to the catacombs, and if we manage to get out in time, we can take the Underworld tunnels as an escape route.”

“Only the Messengers can access those,” she says in dismay, wincing as another round of bullets flies. Kym leans forward, firing two warning shots. 

“I may or may not have interrogated III about the Underworld.”

“Of course you did,” she groans. “Well? We’d need a distraction.”

“I can think of one,” Kym yells over the noise. Lauren peers over the couch’s arm to see where she’s pointing - the trucks behind the Viper are marked with explosive warnings.

“Can you aim from here?” Will asks, ducking as a bullet lands dangerously close to where they’re hidden.

“I told you,” she says, cocking another round into the Smith & Wesson, grinning darkly. “I never miss.”

And she aims straight for the truck, firing. Belladonna barely shields herself in time from the loud blast that sounds through the air, fire shooting up into the sky. Lauren wastes no time in grabbing a dagger from the countertop and tucking it into her belt, throwing the other at Kieran as he leads them out, all four of them running frantically down the block until her partner spots an alleyway, ducking in and pulling open a sewer port. 

“In,” he commands, and none of them refuse. Kym leaps down instantly, Will and Lauren climbing down the stairs tentatively as Kieran closes the port door behind them. Down here, it smells awfully potent of raw sewage, and she holds her nose as they traverse down a seemingly never-ending strait of darkness, the only sign they’ve crossed into the Underworld the brick walls that cross over into metallic arches over their heads, with markings on the iron.

She knows he’s got the same idea he has. 

“We can’t go back there,” warns Will.

“I know.” Lauren side-eyes Kieran in the dark; both of them nod. “I know someplace safe. I don’t know if they’ll welcome us...easily, however.”

“Most likely not easily,” adds Kieran.

“If you lead us into a death trap, White--”

“It’s not a death trap, _Hawkes,_ and secondly, they’re--”

The lights shutter on immediately. Lauren reaches behind Kym to grab the arm of a girl in twin buns holding onto her. She barely manages to dodge an incoming attack from a man who nearly towers over her in height; Kieran has somehow managed to threaten three men in front of him who are backing away, and both Kym and Will stand back to back, guns in hand - she must’ve passed her lieutenant a weapon, somehow. Out of the light come forward two women, and Lauren’s eyes widen as they come into focus. They both cast intimidating shadows; tall and elegant side by side, slightly older than she is. Dressed in ornate fabrics, they seem the opposite of each other, clearly in command.

“Well, if it isn’t Lune,” drawls the right one, dark skin offset by the glinting gold earrings she wears, hair spiraling down her back. 

“Although I don’t recognize these two,” points out the left one, sapphire gloves like beacons in the light as she gestures. They match her eyes, jewels contrasting with her pale skin as she scans the scene in front of her. “What an odd team you’ve brought me--” She looks towards Kieran. “Hyacinth.”

“Eurydice,” he says, sharply nodding by way of acknowledgement. “Hecate.”

She’d never known the circus troupe well. But they’re the best shot they have at safety. They’d fought with Dunya in the battle for the Foxglove - she knows they’re certainly not on the Phantom Scythe’s side any longer, at least. 

What side they _are_ on remains to be seen.

“Where’s Orpheus?” she asks tentatively, noticing the absence of a member alongside Athena.

“Dead,” Eurydice says frankly, not a note of mourning to be found in her voice. The troupe are as harsh as they are lethal; Redcliff’s orphans are another breed altogether. In a way, it discomforts her. “Crossed paths with Athena. But the traitor is no longer our business.”

“And what business are we?” asks Kieran, matching Eurydice’s tone, putting on the commander role as well as he always has.

Hecate cocks her head. “We’ll see. For now, however - I don’t doubt you would all like to get out of these tunnels. Follow us.”

____

It’s been two weeks since their show’s last appearance, and now, the Circus Royale’s grand set up, tents and Ferris wheel and booths and all, simply stay put in an impression of packing up for the rest of this week. Lauren knows better - the troupe is making plans for the incoming doom this city has to offer. She can feel it in her veins. But they’re no noble heroes; most likely it’s so they can keep performing independently, no longer under Phantom Scythe control, only Redcliff’s. Until time runs short, however, this will remain their safehouse within Nightingale Park.

“We have more tents than we can spare,” Eurydice explains, gesturing. “Occupy any one of them. But do be aware we function through routine.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Kieran says. 

Hecate eyes them from the side. “Interesting.”

“What exactly is _interesting?”_

“I’m just observing, Hyacinth.” She raises a brow. “Simply intriguing is all.”

Eurydice frowns. “It seems the fortune teller can’t get her head out of her—”

“Tent,” Hecate says, smiling serenely at Eurydice, who looks only vaguely fazed. “My apologies for observing something so obvious. You are a rather interesting team. For starters, I can tell that each and every one of you will be prone to cause problems within the next few days.”

“Ah, well, even I could have guessed that. Carry on.”

“Problems,” Kym says, moving as far away from Hecate as she humanly can. “I do _not_ like this creepy lady,” she hisses to Lauren.

But it’s not Hecate who Lauren has eyes on - it’s Eurydice, who won’t stop staring at her. Try as she might, it’s hard to get those ice-blue eyes out of her head as she chooses to occupy one of the spare tents in the back alongside Kieran, receiving no short of intrusive looks from Kym and Will.

____

Belladonna does not like failure.

The only thing she hates more than failure is being powerless.

“I told you to bring them in,” says Dylan Rosenthal, voice like ice as he walks around her. She was on top of the world. And now, she kneels like a _dog,_ knees bent, head bowed, Athena and Dunya doing the same at her side. He’s without his mask, unusual for him, white hair combed back and the suit fitting his body nearly matching the powder-gray of his eyes. “I assumed the traitor being involved would have brung more motivation to the table.”

“Really, is that what you call her?” she simpers, despite her best efforts to remain calm. “The traitor? I can tell she means something to you—”

“Davenport.” He might as well have slapped her.

She bites down on a scream as she bows lower. 

She hates this.

She hates having nothing.

“Since you are so incompetent, I release you from duty. Feel free to go back to your associate duties. I will send out an order myself for Ladell, Hawkes, White—” He breaks off. “—and Sinclair. Dismissed.”

She hates having nothing.

She hates it so much that she doesn’t notice Dunya looking at her with open hatred as she leaves, a warning sign of betrayal in her eyes.

____

  
  


“Light sleeper, Hyacinth?”

Kieran doesn’t object to Hecate’s nickname for him - to be fair, with him, there’s been no need for true names, at least not in the world they work in. He couldn’t imagine calling the fortune teller and trained spy anything but the goddess of mischief. “Forgive my wariness. But yes, you could call it that.”

She doesn’t react to his fake grin in the slightest. She also doesn’t regard his sleeping arrangements oddly - he’s already had enough people side-eyeing him and Lauren sharing their quarters. It’s refreshing, really, but it’s also tiring being around someone who looks like they see directly through your soul and out again with that eerily noticeable pair of gray eyes. Hecate makes way for him to come out of the tent, katana strapped to his belt. The sword gives him some degree of comfort, at least. “Or I could call it distrust.”

“That won’t work well here.”

“Again - I’ve every reason to be wary until proven otherwise.”

“So it seems.” Hecate doesn’t leave his side as he starts to walk down the aisle of abandoned booths, scanning his surroundings. Her eyes dart down to his sword. “Family heirloom?”

He keeps his mouth shut. 

“Ah, I see. Not an heirloom...but a remnant, yes? The only thing you have left of your family.”

He stops walking.

“Are you going to keep playing at reading my mind, or are you going to tell me what you’re here for?”

She smiles slightly. “I believe I told you before. I can perceive that the four of you will cause problems unless dealt with properly.”

“Again with the mind games.”

“Oh, not mind games, Hyacinth. It’s clear as day on your face.” Hecate raises a hand. “Your pain has been long buried, but now - it seeps through the cracks. Every movement you make is in pain. I can see that much. How many years have you carried it alone?”

Kieran nearly draws blood as he balls his hands into fists.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says with as much control as he can muster, turning on his heel.

____

  
  


“You look tense, Bella,” Athena remarks, sliding past the Viper. It’s obvious from the way Belladonna presents herself - her appearance is usually never disheveled, but if the ringmaster had one word to describe the assassin, it would be _unkempt._ Her pink hair is in sharp waves down her back, and her usual earrings are missing. Only a keen eye could point out the twitch in Belladonna’s pale fingers, currently tapping out target points on a map attached to a wall. 

“Pinpoint the eleventh,” she says, ignoring Athena. A knife sails through the air and lands straight on the dot, Dunya preparing another one in her hands.

“Really, it’s only been a couple of days since Rosenthal--”

“The Leader,” growls Belladonna under her breath. “Call him that. I can hardly stand the thought of his idiotic face in my consciousness as it is.”

“You know,” the Huntress says, standing up from her chair, “if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re stressed over your demotion, Belladonna.”

In a flash, the snake blade is at Dunya’s throat, steady as it barely touches her skin. 

“You are,” Dunya says levelly. “Aren’t you.”

“When it comes to holding your tongue at the appropriate moment, you’re not very good at it, Almari,” she croons, sheathing the knife. But before she does, she flicks it sideways, showing off the blade’s extension properties - in a manner of seconds, it transforms from a dagger into a short, jagged blade long enough to pass as a sword.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” she says, and despite her best interests, grins. Athena raises an eyebrow as both women face off. 

“Let’s not test very on-edge snakes,” Athena says, gesturing to the map. “We do have four runaways to catch, after all.”

“We do.” Belladonna blithely walks back over to the crumpled paper on the board, but glances sideways at the seemingly at-ease blonde. “You’re aware your troupe has deemed you a runaway as well, yes?”

Athena shrugs. “They have.”

“And you’re fine with leaving them behind?”

“They have their motivations, I have mine.”

Belladonna makes a small noise of contentment. “Fair.”

None of them notice Dunya smiling behind a balisong she rotates in her hand.

____

The storm doesn’t come on a rainy day, or a cloudy one.

The secret execution of Dakan Rhysmel comes on a sunny one, ordered by Lizbeth herself, with no objections from the king either. The High Queen has already played the cards in her favor, after all, and ordering the death of the founder of the Phantom Scythe is simply one of them. 

It’s justice.

Just not the true justice the city deserves.

_You can’t do this, Liz._

Lizbeth closes her eyes as she sets her crown on the vanity, head in her hands.

_You know I can do very well what I want._

He’d been expressionless towards his last breath.

_I know. Which is why even now - when I should hate you - I can’t. Destroy this. Destroy all of it, and destroy me._

She had.

____

Lauren is starting to get very, very angry. It’s not because of any of her three companions - no, they no longer look at each other like they either want to run far away from each other, or potentially attack each other, which is something. It, simply speaking, is because of one person and one person alone.

Brown hair, blue silks. They vary in color, but usually, Eurydice out of circus uniform can be seen wondering around in vintage clothing - nearly two decades back - with ornate lace around the collars, stitching around her breeches, or ruffles in the few dresses she wears. And those eyes - winter-blue, not like Will’s calm oceans, or Kieran’s piercing turquoise - _freeze_ her to the spot, glue her there with an urgency she cannot understand. She doesn’t like being inspected. She’s heard how Hecate has been setting Kym and Kieran on edge, but Eurydice is the only one so far to stare her down numerous times.

It’s her temper and temper alone that causes her to storm directly into the woman’s tent. Eurydice is there, inspecting a set-up of Nightingale Park in her hands. The only indication she gives to acknowledge Lauren’s presence is the small snap of the model in her hold. “Yes?”

“You’ve been looking at me ever since we’ve got here, Eurydice. Should I consider myself that interesting?”

“You’re right in regards to me observing you. Although you needn’t fear a mind-reading session. Hecate does enough of that to everyone as it is.”

“I - you know what, never mind. Why?”

“Why?” She turns around. “Lauren Sinclair, was it?” 

She freezes. “How do you--”

“Don’t leave your personal belongings lying around. Lauren Sinclair, _was it?”_

When she nods, Eurydice turns around from the board, trailing a line on the desk with her fingers. “Well, Lauren, you should know that we as a circus and a team have not survived throughout the years without knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses intricately. We are one body, one movement. And right now, I sense a disturbance in that movement. Taking you four in could be an advantage, or it could be a disadvantage. And it comes down to you.”

“I’m a disadvantage,” she repeats slowly.

“Oh, make no mistake - the other three are broken as well. If you perform long enough, you begin to see the same eyes in the same type of people. And right now, do you want to know what I see?” Eurydice begins to walk towards her, looking directly into her eyes. “I saw you that day, at the circus. You were watching our performance, scouting out our weaknesses. But you should always be prepared for a retaliation. Because _I_ see the weak link just as easily. I see the guilt you suffer under. And if you derail years’ worth of plans just because of a childish grudge - I do not know what has caused you to hold such burdens - but no matter what that may be, I will _not_ hesitate to take you out. Because we do not afford fools here.” She leans in close, smiling softly as Lauren shakes with rage. 

“We do not afford _cowards.”_

Usually, she’s more resilient. She takes a few more hits before she unsheathes her own claws and starts attacking. But a death, a revelation, and a potent grief years’ buried all coming undone in one week comes spiraling out of her at once, and she doesn’t even stop to think as she kicks Eurydice square in the gut. The other woman doesn’t even bat an eyelash as she twists her ankle around, shoving her back with enough force for Lauren to stumble out of the tent. She leaps back up, nimble as a cat, on her tiptoes as Eurydice begins to circle her.

“Jujitsu, I see. There’s a hint of krav maga in there as well. You were taught well.” Eurydice grins. “Strong, but clumsy with your rage. You let it overtake you, and that is your biggest weakness. You do not wish to let your emotions overtake you, but they already have. I can work with you. I’ve worked with worse.” 

She raises two fingers to her lips, whistling harshly. Out of thin air, the entire troupe comes rushing out, weaponless, surrounding her in a tight circle. They don’t need weapons - which is what sets Lauren on edge. 

This is going to be a brutal fight.

But hell, if she hasn’t fought her fair share of dirty hand-to-hand combat battles.

“So that’s it? You were baiting me?”

“It worked, did it not?” Eurydice tosses her hair over her shoulder, a sudden vainness showing through the cracks. “But I did not lie about my impressions of you. You are still the weak link.”

Lauren hisses through her teeth, dashing forward. Instantly, Apollo blocks her, and she uses her weight to push him aside. But as soon as he’s out of her view, Artemis and Morpheus come rushing forward, on either side of her as they move with quick, pointed jabs. Lauren barely manages to use her weight to vault over the two, crashing into Eurydice’s open palms as they curl around her fists.

“Tell me, Lauren. What do you fear?”

“I do not have to tell you a _single thing.”_

“Ah, there she is again. The child.”

Herakles slams into her. She collides into the ground, spitting out dirt as he towers above her. Zephyr grabs hold of her feet, but she kicks back, sending him crashing into Morpheus. It’s no use - they keep coming faster than she can manage. A shock of hazel hair greets her eyes as the archer blocks her blows, darting in and out between her punches. A hit to her jaw sends Lauren stumbling, bent over as she barely manages to dodge another attack.

“Eurydice, this one’s brutal,” says Artemis, laughing. “Can she stay?”

“Depends. If she doesn’t keep acting like a fool, perhaps.”

She yells as she rushes for Eurydice again, but the woman sends her flying with just a kick to her ribs. Before Lauren can even move again, she’s pulled at her auburn hair, now free of her ponytail, and sends her careening sideways. Judging from the swelling in her skin, she’s most likely been bruised. It hurts to get up, but she stands anyway, clutching at her abdomen.

“Had enough yet?”

“Never.”

“I wonder. For you, is letting go of your stubbornness as hard as pulling teeth? Tell me, Lauren Sinclair. What do you fear?”

With every ounce of strength she has left, Lauren charges towards Eurydice.

“We’ll have to do this the hard way, then.” She sighs as she snaps her fingers. “Apollo!”

Lauren lets out a strained gasp as something sharp meets her back, a sudden numbness rushing through her skin. She pulls it out frantically, and her vision blurs as a tranquilizer dart appears in her palm.

“Oh.”

She manages to make out three figures rushing towards her as she passes out.

____

  
  


_“You can’t just….like that...without…”_

Lauren opens her eyes, and immediately regrets doing so. Three blurry figures are in front of her, the largest one currently shouting profanities at who seems to be Eurydice. She winces as she attempts to get up, steadying herself on her elbows. A wave of dizziness rolls over her, and she clamps a hand over her mouth as she gets into a half-sitting position. Slowly, her vision clears to reveal Kym, Will, and Kieran all staring down the temporary co-leader of the troupe. She recognizes the voice - of course it would be her partner yelling the woman’s head off.

“And if you shoot at her again, I will--”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, seeing as how your friend is awake,” trills Artemis from the side, waving a hand at Lauren. She grimaces at the entire troupe surrounding her, perched on loveseats. The main tent she’s in is dimly-lit, velvet curtains covering them all, the smell of incense potent. 

“Apologies for the tranquilizer dart,” says Apollo, to her left.

Lauren scowls. “You shot me.”

“Nothing personal.”

Kieran rushes to her side at an instant, gripping her hand. “Stubborn idiot. What were you thinking? Are you alright?”

“Other than having a couple bruises on me, yes--”

“And you _injured her!”_ he roars at Eurydice. “You ordered your entire team to attack her!”

The woman shrugs. “She wanted the fight just as much as we needed the practice. Lauren?”

Kym and Will stare at her in astonishment as she nods numbly, rubbing at her head. “I may have been...frustrated. It’s my fault I got injured. Don’t slaughter them all for me, Kier.”

“Believe me,” he mutters, squeezing her hand even tighter, “I’m really trying not to as of the moment.”

It’s Will, surprisingly, who glares daggers at Eurydice. “So what was the point of all this? You claimed she met with you, and attacked first. That doesn’t give you the right to render her unconscious.”

“Consider this a trial,” pipes up Hecate, crossing her legs daintily. “We all went through the same thing in our younger years. In order for us to move as one, all loose ends must be tied up. All problems must be solved. She--” says the fortune teller, pointing directly at her, “--is the most unstable one.”

“You keep talking about _problems,_ what--”

“As if you four cannot sense the tension that lies between you?” Hecate snorts. “Please. You are but children. If you are to seek sanctuary, much less succeed in your goal of defeating the Phantom Scythe, you must fix what is broken first.”

“Two choices,” Eurydice adds. Those same wintry eyes met hers again. “You seek sanctuary, and sanctuary alone. The troupe moves without you. Or,” she says, holding up a finger, “you seek an end to the answers you have been crawling after your entire life. Not the answers you want. The answers you _need._ You are at a crossroads, Lauren. Choose.”

She claws into the plush of the couch cushions. Lauren forces herself to breathe in, and out, as she concentrates on her heartbeat in time with her breathing. But try as she might, she can no longer ignore the stopper in her chest. It’s popped off more times than she can bear; a lifetime worth of anger and hatred and grief and grudges. It won’t last for long. It’s already cracking at the edges.

And if this won’t work out - being Eurydice’s _tutee -_ she can always get physical training out of this.

“I seek answers,” she says quietly, ending the silence. She holds up a hand against her companion’s protests.

“I’ll be fine.” Fierce gold meets winter with the force of a bonfire. “This is my fight and my fight alone.” 

Eurydice’s lips curve into a half-smile. “Then let us begin.” She kneels close to Lauren, close enough for the perfume on her skin to get to her head.

“What do you _fear?”_

____

A memory:

This one does not stay in the past. This one is engraved in her skin; sticks to her like the future.

_She is running, running across the forest grounds with Dylan at the front. Laughter echoes throughout the woods, the brook across from them bubbling with glee as summertime comes to greet them, brushes lovely rose-tipped fingers across the sky. A twig snaps beneath her feet as she enters a tangled patch of briars, calling out her friend’s name._

_“Dylan?” No response, but she giggles anyway. “Dylan, where are you? I can’t find you!”_

_“Come and get me!” echoes the response from far away, and Lauren breaks into giggles as she runs forward, towards the sound of his voice._

_Everything comes to a standstill when she trips on a gnarled tree trunk and topples into a low hole in the ground, enough to send a tiny twelve-year old girl down into soft moss tunneling into the undergrowth. It’s enough to send pain ricocheting up her leg, and she whimpers in pain as it travels up her spine as she attempts to move it. There is nothing but the sound of her and her breathing as she curls up into a fetal position, waiting for the pain to subside. It doesn’t, and when she howls for Dylan again, he comes, gasping in shock as he sees her there, curled on her side._

_“Are you okay?! What happened?”_

_“Dylan - I fell,” she blurts out, tears at the edges of her eyes. “Can you get Dad? I’m sorry--”_

_“I’ve got it! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you!” he insists, panic clear in his face as he dashes over into the forest. It takes minutes, or maybe hours - she doesn’t know - before she hears footsteps, large enough to be an adult’s. Soon enough, Alexander and his brother peer over the hole, led by Dylan’s frantic calls. Dismay strikes her father, but a calm stretches over his face as he nods to Tristan. Lauren gasps as she attempts to crawl back to allow for more room. But her father smiles softly as he holds out his hand._

_“It’s okay, little daisy.” He gestures to the side. “Come on. That’s it - good girl, grab my hand. We’re going to get you out of there - there we go,” he encourages her, as she grabs on to his pressed suit. She can see that she’s staining it with grass and leaves attached to her dress, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he hauls her into his arms, carrying her princess-style._

_“Should I call for an ambulance?” Tristan asks, looking down at Lauren. “Poor Ren.”_

_“I’ll set the bone myself. Doesn’t look too bad; I’ll call for a doctor after she’s rested. She’s in shock.”_

_Marcus is waiting at the front gates of the Sinclair summer manor, and he bows profusely as they approach, Dylan at the men’s heels. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”_

_“It’s alright, Marcus. No need for drama here,” he amends, motioning to Dylan. “Get your son home safe.”_

_“Very well.”_

_“Oh, goodness!” exclaims Rachel, tumbling out of the front doors, golden eyes sparking in the light as she runs towards her daughter. The chiffon dress she sports waves in the wind like flower petals. “My little one. What on earth happened?”_

_“Just a small fall.” Alexander smiles down at Lauren. “Right, little daisy?”_

_“Yeah,” she says, hiccupping through the tears - more out of emotion than pain. “Yeah, just a small fall.”_

_“So stubborn,” he says, rolling her eyes. “But you do know we all fall, right, Lauren? We all fail sometimes. Sometimes,” he continues, as he and Rachel walk into the house, Tristan watching fondly from a distance, “we break, too. We lose. But you know what? Do you know why we do all those things?”_

_She shakes her head._

_“So we can heal. What is broken can be healed and what is lost can be found,” he says gently, smoothing her hair down. “Can you remember that, Lauren?”_

_“Yeah,” she mutters, nodding off into a deep slumber as he lays her down on a bed. “Yeah, I can.”_

____

  
  


“And so you broke,” ponders Eurydice, “the day that you learned the truth.”

“It was barely a week after Allendale,” she bites out. “And Dylan.” Lauren crosses her arms as the snow continues to fall. Both women watch the flakes drift by as they walk towards the clearing, swords in hand. The shortsword in her own grip is similar to Katoptris, but the weight is off, and so is the build. But she’s been taught to adapt, and adapt she will. She’s wasted no time in preparing for a fight - her hair is in a harsh bun, the black clothing on her thick enough to warrant training gear. Eurydice only employs a dark bodysuit, the Circus Royale marking on the sash wrapped around her waist. On the woman’s wrist, she can spot a circus tent tattoo. It must be the literal symbol that binds all of them together.

“Harsh words for only a child.”

“We were all children.” Lauren tests the blade out in her hands as they begin to part, swinging the silver around. It moves, not not as easily as she’d like. “And then we were made weapons.”

“Weapons break,” drawls Eurydice, holding up her own sword. “People break even easier. What does not break is the mind. Yours is feeble as glass, young one.”

“I’m not much younger than you.”

She shrugs. “Your impulsiveness would suggest otherwise.”

Lauren shoves down on her anger. “You’re just testing me now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I am,” she says, chuckling. “But you don’t hide your emotions well. Go on, then.” Eurydice slides into a fighting stance, elegant as the wind. _A living storm,_ she thinks. “Attack me.”

“What exactly should I expect to learn from you?” she grits out, as she runs forward. Their blades clash in a heat of sparks, and Lauren strikes once, twice, before her mentor turns on the offensive and parries her way. She somersaults in the air, landing on her feet.

“You’re asking _me_ what _you_ want?” Eurydice looks at her with exasperation. “Really, now. If we want to be so frank about it, then: you are an instrument of war. I will teach you how to play the strings you need. You have used night and blood as a shield, Scarlet Queen - I will teach you how to truly become the moon that is your name.”

“Is that all that makes me different?” Lauren retaliates, striking harder. Eurydice doesn’t relent as they block each other, blow for blow, in a sequence of thrusts. “My history? That I chose willingly after being forced?”

“You’re hardly different from the little broken ones I’ve had before.”

And that’s when she’s thrown onto her back, the swordpoint of Eurydice’s blade staring her straight in the face.

“We were all forced to be something, little daisy,” drawls Eurydice, one foot on her chest. “And that is why we must grow despite it all, you and I. Girls with thorns around their hearts and blades for fingertips. We crack, and we bend, but we do not _bow._ We are at _no one’s mercy.”_

“I lost any sense of mercy a long time ago,” she retorts, and shoves herself back up. “I don’t hesitate.”

“Really? Because to me - you do the _exact opposite.”_ Mirth laces her words as Lauren skids to the side, once again failing to meet Eurydice’s blade. She’s moving faster now. 

And then the ultimate blow comes.

“Your parents’ death was not your fault, and nor was young Dylan’s. Neither was your uncle’s.”

She charges forward. Eurydice blocks her again, but this time, Lauren pushes. “Dylan is not _dead.”_

“The boy you knew is.”

“You don’t know him!”

“I don’t, but what I do know is that we are not static. We change, and we grow, for the better or the worse. You are still stuck in the past.” Metal meets metal once more as Lauren’s fury grows. “There is more in you,” she rasps harshly. _“Plus en est vous,_ young _Kore.”_

“I am not _Kore,_ I--”

“What?” Eurydice demands, her lip curling in amusement. “What are you but a young fawn, a naive child, the maiden herself, _kore?_ You think yourself a dread queen when you know not the first thing about true darkness.”

She backs away as Lauren swings her shortsword. “Well? Will you attack, or should I wait forever?”

Running, running. It’s all she’s ever done as she moves to attack Eurydice, but too late - a hand snatches her wrist like a vice, and she pummels headfirst into the ground. 

“Reconnect with nature. Perhaps it’ll help you in some way.”

“Was that a joke?!” demands Lauren, spitting out grass.

“Maybe.” Eurydice lets go of her. “Again.”

____

She doesn’t seek out Kieran, or Kym, or Will for the next few days. She isn’t allowed, to, really, with Eurydice calling her out for tiring training sessions from dawn until dusk. In an odd, masochistic sense, she’s missed this - fire aching beneath her bones as she works herself to the limit, moves the sword like an extension of her body, feeling nothing but pure adrenaline coarse through her heart. They come in one by one, the troupe, like puzzle pieces. It’s the clearing first, then the training circles, than the obstacle course she has to move through while dodging a thousand things at once - Artemis’s arrows, Apollo’s knives, the incoming dual whips Herakles wields, Morpheus’s daggers, Zephyr’s blows, Hecate’s soundless attacks, and so forth. It’s the worst when the fortune teller enters the field.

“Still not letting go, Kore?” she taunts, as Lauren maneuvers her sword to no avail. “My goodness. You and that dark boy harbor the same stubbornness, the same shadows.”

_“Enough_ about me and him.” Her sword rips into two arrows flying her way - Artemis has grabbed hold of her bow; the goddess of the hunt herself after the maiden.

“Ah, but you are the same and yet different. He wishes to be free of pain, of suffering. You cling to it like a child to a toy, are entertained by it like a clown. Why torture yourself so?”

“Revenge has suited me well for ten years.” She shears off the whip clamping around her ankle.

“Better,” Eurydice calls. “But not yet.”

“I really wish you’d shut up--”

“You’re getting distracted, Kore,” she commands. “Again.”

Lauren huffs, blowing her hair out of her face as she faces down the troupe, steady on her feet. 

“What would you have, then, if not vengeance?” Hecate looks at her with something akin to sympathy. “We all live for something. But in the end, we for ourselves. You hardly live at all.”

“I prefer not to think - about the _others,”_ she grits out, as they attack, her blade against five. 

“Why? Because you don’t know the answer?”

She refuses to respond. It’s the wrong choice - in a matter of seconds, they surround her. Eurydice walks through the crowd, parting the troupe as she lifts up Lauren’s chin. She kneels before her, though not willingly.

"You have lost those you love. But so have I.” _Orpheus._ And so have all of us. Sometimes those who hurt us are the ones who love us the most - not our traitors, nor our backstabbers, or those who are not our loved ones. Sometimes love is too much of a downfall than anything else. But it does not have to be for you."

_____

“Anxious?”

It’s Kym who speaks. Kieran had hardly noticed her from up on the Ferris wheel - he’d come here to think, to clear his head. Up on the rungs of the wheel, he crouches lowly, sure no one would spot him. But she has, and leans against the lower rung, glancing at the sketchpad in his hand.

“You could say that.” He looks down. “The past couple of days have been...odd.”

“She’s not around,” Kym says, voicing his thoughts. “I know. It’s weird.”

“Then you must be anxious, too.”

“Well, right now, I need to get my mind off things, and need to be around someone I actually don’t like,” she jokes, but they both look away as it lands. Some truth still resides in it. She keeps looking towards her pocketwatch - or at least what seems to be one in her pocket. A memento from someone she loved, perhaps.

It’s when he realizes they all have their own burdens to carry.

Perhaps he’s been approaching this the wrong way.

“I know what it’s like to lose those you love.” He isn’t sure why he’s admitting this now, to someone who would rather see him gone than next to her, but Kieran hops down from the rung, standing a few feet away from her. “You don’t forget it easily. And I know you care about her, and Will does too, as I do. So...I won’t let anything happen to her. I won’t let anything happen to the four of us.”

Slowly, she nods. There isn’t as much venom in her next words.

“Smart mouth, White.”

He grins caustically. “You said that about me before.”

“Eh, but I mean it.” Kym shrugs, turning around. “Don’t be late for dinner. Otherwise Will’s going to have another tantrum, and I _cannot_ stand to be around those.”

____

She sneaks back into the manor. It’s not really sneaking around, because the second she ends up on the second floor, Lucy and Eliza come running her way and start embracing her profusely, crying as they ask questions. But they understand her need for privacy - but don’t let Lauren enter the library without a mug of cocoa and a jacket around her training gear; she hadn’t brung her sword along.

_Second floor, in the back shelf, third drawer._

She follows her uncle’s last request, and when she comes towards her goal, opens the drawer with no resistance. Letters spill out - all stamped with the royal insignia. The Aevasther insignia. 

_Dakan,_

_Time has run short these days, but I have been reporting into Phantom Scythe operations lately--_

Lauren nearly drops the sheaf of paper.

They’re all in Tristan’s neat handwriting. Each one to the royal’s advisor, her _godfather,_ detailing Phantom Scythe activity. Correspondence between the two men on how things have gone wrong and how they need to fix it. How Lauren was - ten years ago - to be protected at all costs from their mistakes. How Tristan would cooperate with the Scythe in order to keep the one he cared about safe.

It turns out the latter part of that would turn out to be cruelly wrong.

All this time - they’d been in constant contact, trying to undo the errors of the past.

_Love can be your downfall. But it does not have to be._

She lifts up another letter, and her heart nearly stops.

_My little daisy - if you are reading this, it means I have failed._

_I apologize for the pain you may have undergone. How much, I do not know. I wish that time and consequence could be buried six feet under, but alas, that does not seem to be the case. Rachel and I have done everything we can - and yet, the Snapdragon seems to be going under. Violence against violence - the circle seems to never end. Maybe we will not find a way out of this war now, but can do so in the future. A better future - one we dare hope for._

_I’m sorry I kept it all from you. You were always so stubborn, bent on improving the world. If only I could make you see that you are more than you have already deemed yourself to me, Lauren. I hope that if you play a part in this city’s healing - that it is not at the expense of yourself; you, who always wanted to give herself to others, would never think about herself once._

_I have failed, however. That does not change._

_But it does not mean you have to._

_If there is one truth I have discovered over the years, it is that the world is harsh and cruel. We all fall eventually, the wayward ones._

_But what is broken can be healed, and what is lost will be found._

_Your loving father,_

_Alexander_

It’s only when the words on the page begin to blur that she realizes she’s started to shed a decade’s worth of pent up tears on the paper.

____

The last trial is private. 

The anger she musters now is not anger at her helplessness, nor her surroundings. No, after crying her heart out over the past, this anger is different. It fills her, completes her, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if she lets the truth spill from her lips.

She can tell Eurydice knows what’s about to come. With a snap of her fingers, Hecate dims the candles. 

_You walk with the darkness._

Lauren unsheathes her shortsword.

_You must understand to own your own darkness, first._

“What do you want, Kore?” comes the question out of pure night, nothing but black in front of her eyes. She closes them, breathing in the air around her. 

“I am not the maiden.”

“Who are you, then?” This time in amusement. “What do you want?”

In one swift motion, she lifts her sword - and rotates it mid-air, slamming it into the ground. The tent ripples with the wind; the main tent they use for shows is her universe, caging her in, not a hint of the outside world showing through.

“I want,” she breathes, saltwater trickling down her cheeks, “to stop fighting.”

“You’re finally admitting it.” Eurydice’s voice travels down to her from afar. “You have had many battles, Kore.”

“It should’ve stopped ten years ago - why not now, why do I have to keep _fighting--”_ She’s spiraling now, the anger in her chest building, cresting into a fiery wave swallowing her whole. But this time, she strides into the sea, lets the dark water and the flame cover her head, make her anew. “It isn’t _fair.”_

“Nothing is fair.”

_“I lost everything!”_ It is a guttural scream, an admittal she has not dared to let herself feel for too long. “I lost _everything -_ and now I know _nothing._ They’re all gone. They’re all _gone.”_

A dagger moves in the shadows. She blocks it. They come faster now, and Lauren tears the sword from the ground as the battle begins, as Eurydice watches the product of her work form as the candles turn on, one by one.

“Don’t talk to the past, Lauren. Talk to the present. There is no use in talking to ghosts.”

_“You said you'd always be there for me!”_ she yells, crying out as she spins, a dancer refusing to let a single blow touch her. The performer and the warrior in one, combined. A promise made by her family and childhood love both. “But you're not. And it's because of me. It's my fault. _It's my fault._ I should’ve done more. I should’ve done _more.”_

“You cannot.”

“I know I can’t,” she whispers, clutching at her chest. The troupe pauses in their attacks.

_You walk with the darkness._

“Do not bury yourself,” Eurydice warns, finally showing her face to the light. “You are not her.”

“What?”

“That girl you were.” Eurydice faces her head-on. “She is dead, buried with the Foxglove Compound itself. The Scarlet Queen reigns no more. The woman I talk to now is barely alive, clinging onto the only thing she knows how to do. This woman holds on tighter than a child to mere _remnants_ of crimson and red. Someday, however, I would like to hope that she would prefer to do away with her title - would prefer to not need it at all.”

A test.

A test to prove herself.

“I am not her, either.”

“Then?” Hecate, this time, behind her. “Who are you?”

She stands. It is difficult and heart-wrenching and unsteady, but she stands, sword in both hands. 

“I’m a fighter.” It’s a whisper. “I always have been.”

The attacks begin again.

This time, Lauren moves without her anger. Forgets it, tosses it to the wind, as she moves with the wind, parrying Artemis, ducking Herakles’s blows, moving like a dancer in-between five become six. 

This time, Eurydice falls back. This time, Lauren holds her sword against her mentor’s throat.

“Without my grief, I…” Another whisper, another tear. “I am broken. I am not whole. But I can’t live with it any longer. I have--”

“More,” finishes Eurydice, sweeping a lock of hair over Lauren’s brow. A slow smile touches her features as Lauren kneels, head bowed. 

“Rest,” she murmurs, touching her forehead. “Rest for now, Persephone, dread queen, raised by the sword, borne by flowers. Rest.”

Daisies rattle in the wind outside the tent.

_Rebirth._

____

When they’re long gone, and the scent of incense has left her nose, Lauren finds a mirror.

She wraps the lower half of her hair around the sword. The girl who looks back at her in the glass looks young, and vulnerable, and closed-off. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that is enough, for now, to dust off the ashes of her past, and start anew - not yet completely borne anew, but starting. 

So she brings the blade down, and curtains of crimson tumble down to the ground. When she looks back up, tossing a hand through her hair, it falls just below her jawline, framing her face in a more voluminous way than it ever had before. 

Lauren allows herself a small, arrogant smile.

Alright, so maybe change isn’t so bad after all.

____

“What do you mean, he isn’t here?”

“I saw him leave not that long ago - oh, there he is!” Artemis points behind her, and Lauren whirls around to see Kieran conversing with Herakles, dressed in all black. “Found him. Your little dark one.”

“What?”

“Sorry, did I confuse you, Sephie? I meant the unseen one.” Lauren blinks in confusion. Artemis keeps speaking, her grin growing larger by the second. “Your _Aidoneus._ Makes sense, you know. You both did occupy the Underworld literally at one point.”

“Right.” She’s starting to catch on to what Artemis is implying, and inches away from the girl. “Right. I’ll see you later.”

Kieran startles when he sees her. “You’re back - you cut your _hair.”_

She blinks, and a grin spreads over her face as he begins to flush, ever so slightly. “I’ve been away for awhile. I thought change was due in time.”

“It is. It’s not--” He coughs into his hand. “You look nice, officer.”

“You can’t call me that anymore, you know.”

“Old habits die hard,” he says, waving her knowing grin off as he slings an arm around her shoulders. Quietly, she wraps an arm around his waist, meeting his stare. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She ponders the question for a while.

“I am, really,” Lauren says eventually, and this time, she means it. Both of them look towards the sunset, a new dawning - a new day. “I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No references this time around - I believe they're all self-explanatory in the context of a chapter that deals with so much mythology.
> 
> I hope this chapter soothes you in a way. It certainly did me - I haven’t felt emotions as strongly as I have until now; writing Lauren’s redemption/simultaneous healing arc was an experience. She’s still got a long way to go, but consider the long haul part of it done for now. The other three’s arcs have been hinted at for several chapters, and I promise we’ll deal with them accordingly. It’s been heartbreaking to see her torn apart like this, but she’s slowly coming back together at the edges. The main four are as well. Hopefully I’ve been developing their relationships well enough, because you’re going to be seeing them on screen for literally the entire rest of the fic. The next chapter will take a while, which is why I've made this one so long - and ending on a somewhat-hopeful note. Stay tuned, kids.


	31. reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think all of us have held enough secrets to last a lifetime,” she says, sticking her finger out. “We...we have to work as a team if we want to save this city. All of us. And that means no more boundaries, no more harboring grudges. It means accepting the wrongs each of us have committed. Even if we did them willingly,” she says pointedly at Lauren, “or didn’t. And each of us have lost something along the way.”
> 
> She notices how Kym clenches her watch tighter. 
> 
> “So I don’t want us to lose anything else. Understood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I heal, and uh...dig the knife in a little deeper. Sorry not sorry. But just one more time, okay? I promise.
> 
> This chapter deals with the following materials: **mentions of past trauma and torture, PTSD flashbacks, and hinted-at parental abuse.**

Tonight is one of the odd nights. 

He hasn’t had one of these in a long, long time, but he supposes that things long buried come crawling out of the shadows to haunt you eventually. And haunt Kieran White they do, all painted shadows and horrible visions, until he forgoes sleep entirely and keels over, arms slung over his legs, spine hunched. It doesn’t take long for dawn to stretch rose-tipped fingers across the sky, and in turn, for Lauren to turn over and notice him having been awake for the past five hours.

She always notices him off-habit, when the slightest change in his posture occurs. It’s both a blessing and a curse to feel her fingertips skimming the back of his shirt, tentatively at first, then forming into a hand that snatches his wrist to turn him around her way. He still hasn’t gotten used to the lack of crimson spilling around her shoulders - now, auburn frames her face in sharp, short brushstrokes falling past her jawline, slightly disheveled. It’s adorable, but he supposes that to any other person, waking up with a former assassin in your bed is anything but _cute._

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she mutters, voice still thick with fatigue. Her head bumps against his. “Have I transferred my problems over to you?”

“Fortunately, you haven’t,” he says, trying for a joke, but it doesn’t come out as one. “I haven’t been sleeping at all, really. No nightmares.”

“Old wounds?”

He gets what she’s talking about.

“In a way,” he mutters, pressing a small kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Don’t worry about it much. Time to get up, anyhow.”

“Why is it when you tell me to not worry, I always do?” she huffs stubbornly, but doesn’t tear her eyes away from him as they both leave the tent eventually.

____

There’s only one clock in the Circus Royale setup, and said clock is within the intersection of the main booths, but isn’t viewable from a distance. Which is unfortunate for her, because too often, Kym catches herself looking at the pocketwatch in her hands. It comes out more often these days, spinning gold in midair, the crack in the glass now visible as day pokes its head out.

Maybe Hecate and Eurydice did have a point about problems arising.

Stupid fortune tellers and unusually competent acrobat-assassins.

She sticks her head out, looking around - no one seems to be here, not yet, anyway. The watch glimmers up at her, the engravings sticking out.

Kym sighs, clenching her fingers around the metal tighter.

“It’s been a while,” she whispers, her smile fading, “hasn’t it?”

No response, but that’s always the case, so she keeps going. “I wish you were here, as always. It was always easier when you were around. Now there’s...so much. So much I wish I could tell you. A lot.” Inhale, exhale. “I’ll be faster this time. I promise. I’ll do what I couldn’t for you back then.”

“Kym?” reverberates a voice - Will.

“I swear it,” she whispers, and shuts the watch closed, tucking it into her pocket. _“Coming!”_

____

There’s the oddest aroma coming from the cooking tent. Lauren can’t exactly pinpoint what it is - something akin to musky spice and smells that bring to mind the sea. When she walks in, she rubs at her eyes to make sure she isn’t hallucinating: Kieran is currently at the stove, alone, expertly tossing rice in a pot, dotted with furikake. She’s always known he’s been better in the kitchen than she’s ever been, but something about the scene before her is somewhat domestic, almost.

“The rest of the troupe and...the lieutenant and sergeant are setting up,” he says cautiously, as if not sure what to call Kym and Will now. “I figured I’d take cooking duties for today.”

“Just checking in,” she says, closing the tent opening. It technically isn’t a lie. 

“I could use a helping hand.”

She winces, backing away. The last time she’d even been in the kitchen, Kym nearly had a meltdown. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please, darling,” he says, snorting. “It’s just a taste test. Here.” Without further interruptions, a spoon of something that looks like curry - or stew; she can’t tell - lands in front of her face. Relatively unassuming. It’s still steaming, so she blows on it gently before she tastes it.

Big mistake.

Lauren draws back, waving her hands in front of her face. _“What,”_ she chokes out, “is in that _thing?”_

“It’s mild?!” Kieran bursts out, looking both exasperated and amused at her now rapidly contorting expression, cheeks bright red.

_“My face is on fire, moron.”_

“I swear, Lauren—”

“Is everything okay in here?” interjects Kym, a tousled crown of sapphire poking her head in. Her eyes widen at the sight of Lauren rapidly chugging water, kneeling on a nearby chair. “What _happened?”_

“Lauren can’t handle actual spice,” Kieran says frankly. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she says warily, but doesn’t shy from the two as she walks forward, crossing her arms at the sight of the curry-tipped spoon. “And I suppose this is the offending item?”

“Yes.”

“You better have not poisoned this, **or I’ll shoot you,”** she hears the sergeant say, and then watches in horror as Kym promptly tips it all into her mouth. Two seconds pass - and nothing except a small grin.

“Huh. You’re good for something, White.”

“Are you _insane?!”_ Lauren exclaims, pressing a hand to her slowly cooling cheek. 

“Actually, I think you’re the one who’s tolerance for spice is severely concerning.” Kym shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “Poor dear. You don’t even know what true torture is.”

“She doesn’t,” Kieran says, once again backstabbing her.

“Et tu, Brute,” mutters Lauren, just as Will comes in. All three of them tense. 

“What’s—” He breaks off at the sight of Lauren hunched over. 

“She can’t handle spice, my dear lieutenant,” says Kym, thankfully breaking the ice as she claps her hands on his shoulders. “And neither can you! I remember last year’s holiday party when you got your tongue burnt over _bell peppers_ on the deviled eggs.”

“I did _not—”_ he blusters, but the damage is already done. The grin on the sergeant's face is a wicked one. 

“Try it, then.” She motions to the spoon. “There's still a bit. And no, Kieran did not poison it.”

“Clearly,” he mutters, making awkward eye contact with the other man. Kieran looks like he’d rather swallow shattered glass in a cup than interact with William Hawkes head-on, due to the extreme, palpable level of _awkwardness_ between them, but hands him the spoon anyhow in a gesture of politeness. He takes it, inspecting it with a practical eye, and dips a finger in it cautiously, raising it to his tongue.

It takes him barely even one second to start coughing, dashing behind the chef to grab water. Kym is in tears. She’s never seen the sergeant laugh this hard.

_“Oh, you little baby, crying over spice when you can’t even handle the bell peppers on eggs--!”_

_“Shut up, Ladell!”_

Lauren chokes on a laugh. “Don’t tease the tiger, Kym.”

“More like a kitty, seriously! You’re no better, you’re both such pathetic little _babies--”_

“Ladell.” Will growls a warning at her, wiping the liquid off his mouth. “You speak one more word--”

“Aw, and what are you gonna do if I do? Give me paperwork, Lieutenant? Make me grab coffee--?”

He moves too fast. Far too fast for even her to react. In a manner of seconds, Kym is shut up by a faceful of curry in her face, sliding down her skin in brown rivulets. She spits out the food, clearly stunned by Will’s sudden display of aggression. He, too, is shocked at his own actions, eyes widening as he realizes what he’s done.

“Kym, I--”

“Pardon me, Kieran,” she says quietly, bowing. In a silent exchange of body language only they seem to understand, the sergeant moves over to the rice pot with no objections from Kieran. “Forgive me, ancestors,” she mutters under her breath, all teeth as she grins, “but he made the first move.” 

Will only has a brief moment to speak again before she flings a spoonful in his face. It sticks in his hair like snow powder.

Lauren breaks into laughter. True laughter, unrestrained, the sort that makes her double over, clutching at her stomach in-tears laughter. She doesn’t spot Kieran watching her with a sort of rapturous fascination before a splatter of something wet hits her own face. Her head snaps up.

The actual _nerve--_

“You--” she chokes out. “You--”

He shrugs. “Not my fault you can’t handle spice.”

Kieran barely ducks her quick fist his way. When that doesn’t work, she flings additional curry in his face. 

Kym whistles. “White! You’re with me. We’ll make these morons wish they were dead.”

“No one is killing anyone around here,” Will grits out, grabbing the curry pot as Lauren moves in front of him, wielding a spoon like a sword. 

“I forget, Lauren,” taunts Kieran, both him and Kym beaming evilly like twin Cheshire Cats, “what was the score between us last time?”

“25-32,” she retorts, lifting up two wooden spoons, twirling them effortlessly in her hands. “I am going to beat your _ass.”_

What happens next is the most chaotic sequence of events she’s ever experienced in her life. Somehow, petty grudges turn them all into children, playing a makeshift tag game of sorts ducking behind benches and unused chairs. Will and her make a good team, surprisingly, reading each other’s movements in the fight. At one point, she vaults over his back, pelting the other team with a ruthless set of attacks. Kym and Kieran are like shadows, darting around until one of them realizes the other is gone - and by then, it’s too late. 

_“Chicken?”_

“You wish!” she calls out, pointing to Kym with a spoon. Will makes a small noise of discomfort as her legs dig into his side, the assassin riding him piggyback in order to get a better vantage point. “Stop hiding my partner, Kym!”

“Me?” The sergeant bats her eyelashes. “Please. Have mercy. On a tiny little saint. Can you not perceive my halo?”

“You have a set of devil horns, Ladell,” deadpans Will, eye twitching.

Lauren hears him before she sees him, and accidentally causes Will to go sprawling on the floor as she twists mid-air, ducking Kieran’s attack. They block each other blow for blow, grabbing each other’s arm as the curry pot tumbles to the ground. 

“26-32,” he pants. “I beat you this time.”

“I’m still the winner,” she grumbles. 

Kym tugs at her ankles. Both of them come crashing onto the ground, all four of them spread there in a gigantic, brown and white mess. She starts giggling first, and soon enough, Lauren can’t help joining in - and soon enough, an entire chorus is radiating throughout the tent. She hasn’t been this carefree in _years._ Neither has Kieran. He looks decades younger, the weight of something invisible tugged off his shoulders.

Peace in the chaos.

“Did you predict _this?”_ Eurydice asks at the opening of the tent, looking sardonically at Hecate.

The fortune-teller shrugs, smiling slightly. “I predicted there would be problems. I never said _which.”_

____

Athena’s late.

It isn’t like her, but frankly, at this point, Belladonna couldn’t care less. Knowing the Hyacinth and his wretched machinations, he might have disappeared into the Underworld after escaping from his apartment along with the other three. Along with _her._

The odd feeling in her chest won’t slumber even as she wills it down. If she didn’t know better, she’d call it the sting of betrayal. She’d done everything to guarantee Lauren’s loyalty - and yet, the woman had not stayed. She’d put all the cards on the former Scarlet Queen being selfish enough to burn the entire city down to the ground - and had _miscalculated._

The Huntress hasn’t reported back, either. 

Being left alone with her thoughts is something Belladonna hates even more than being powerless. She leans against the railing of the former Viper Territory warehouse, watching weapons operations being conducted under Phantom Scythe name - gears churning out a mechanical rhythm that never ceases to end. 

_Mom, why do I have to do these things?_

_Oh, you still don’t get it, do you?_ A reprimand and a pitiful remark in one. _See, this is why I wonder why I let you stay in the first place. Girls like us - they don’t get anything. The world thinks it owes them nothing. And you’ve got to learn to fight for everything you’ve got like I did, Belladonna._

A familiar head of blonde hair enters the warehouse. She wastes no time in storming down to the elevator, slamming the doors open.

She’d been playing with matches that day, watching the flames jump up and down.

What majesty there was in burning down everything that had made you suffer.

_“You’re late,”_ she growls.

“There were complications with--”

She doesn’t even get a chance to finish her sentence as Belladonna swings her around and slams her into the metal walls, a hand over her head, clawing into iron. “They are your troupe. _Your troupe._ And somehow - you couldn’t get _any_ of them to assist you?”

“They’re on neither side, Bella,” she says, attempting to placate her superior, mad with rage. Athena frowns. “And we’ve been unable to track down the four because--” She breaks off. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You dare ask me questions--”

The dark parts of Belladonna snatch onto the fear in Athena’s violet eyes and pull on them, begging for more. “Bella - when was the last time you slept?”

She backs away. Her knife won’t do this time, no, she needs _more--_

“Kill me if you want,” the ringmaster says blithely, raising her hands. “But it won’t do you any good.”

This.

This is why she hates the ringmaster, because she’s always gotten under her skin.

“Leave before I do.”

“Belladonna--”

_“Leave,”_ she snarls, twisting around to face her. “I’ve no use for incompetent, blathering fools.”

She doesn’t wait around to see Athena eventually do so, some shadowy emotion playing in her eyes.

____

They land together, silent watchers on the roof. The docks have remained relatively unchanged, the only difference in the usual smoky, ink-stained scenery the two assassins observing the operations from below. Both of them are in dark clothing, dressed to blend in more conspicuously than they would normally be. Masks stretch over their lower faces, Lauren’s signature hair hidden, and Kieran’s katana strapped to his back. Auburn strands still poke out, however, and she tugs her hood on tighter to no avail.

He snorts quietly. “It’s no use.”

Lauren glares at him with the force of a thousand suns. “You comment one more time on how my new hair is cute **and I** **will cut you.”**

Kieran makes to speak again, but a blur of motion catches his eye. 

“Down there, nine o’clock.” 

She glances over where he’s gesturing, and sees both Belladonna and Sake exit the warehouse, the latter in the Viper’s tight grip. Her clothes are different - she’s chosen to equip a pressed striped blazer and dark skirt flowing around her knees, slits exposing the tall boots she wears. Blood stains the front of her shirt as she slams the bombing expert against the wall.

_Who did she kill this time?_

“The ringmaster left because of you,” Sake says, and Lauren winces as she turns the dial up on the listening device in her ear. “Slitting a random lackey’s throat isn’t going to solve anything, Viper.”

“Athena left,” she hisses under her breath, looking over at Kieran. He seems to be coming to the same conclusion as her, the gears turning in his head. 

“Without her second-in-command--”

“She’ll be weakened,” Lauren finishes. “How much, that remains to be seen.” 

Truth be told, her mind isn’t focused on the former ringmaster. It’s Sake who bothers her now, still employing a mix of his old sarcasm and arrogance as he talks to the increasingly aggravated assassin. It would be so, so easy to just end him right then and there, but the sword in her back weighs her down, and it just doesn’t come as natural to her as it did before, taking life for no other reason than because her revenge deems it so.

_Later,_ she tells herself. _I’ll deal with you, my remaining ghost, for last._

“Dunya hasn’t reported in either,” Kieran whispers, listening in. “She’s losing her allies.”

“I’m pretty sure the obvious reason lies right in front of us,” she says somberly. 

“...But you don’t have to worry about shipment timings. Despite Lune’s interference, the nitroglycerin shipments that were left over on the Scythe’s side can still be used. Although I highly doubt only a simple bang will suffice for you.”

“Correct,” Belladonna says, sneering. “I’m thinking more along the lines of total annihilation.”

Kieran has gone oddly silent, and if Lauren listens closely, his breathing has quickened. She rests a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of it. “We only have a few minutes until they come back into the warehouse. Let’s get what we need and get out.”

“Right,” he says, nodding along, Belladonna’s words echoing both their heads. “Let’s go.”

_Annihilation._

____

_“Total annihilation,” the man had breathed, smiling faintly. “That’s what they want, isn’t it, son?”_

_“You’re wrong,” Kieran White at fifteen said, not yet the myth, the beast that haunted Ardhalis so. When he believed in what they had put in his mind, blindfolded just like the girl he was able to call his friend. His only weakness. He advanced, watching the crimson pool on the man’s shirt from where he’d stuck the katana in. It was too long for a young boy’s hands, but in time, it would no longer be. “You’re wrong. I’m--” His voice broke off._

_“I don’t want to do this,” he admitted. “I don’t want to.”_

_He didn’t know Kieran, and yet he nodded anyhow. “I understand. Do it, then.”_

_“I can’t!”_

_“You must.” His eyes closed. “Or they’ll come after you, boy. Do it. Don’t regret it after.”_

_Kieran froze. They would, wouldn’t they? The scars on his back ached._

_So he took one step forward, and another. And another. He raised the sword up high in his hands._

_Too late, the realization stretched over the man’s eyes._

_“You - you were that boy - in the garden--”_

_He flung the sword down._

_Later that day, the authorities would find a man dangling from a chandelier in an abandoned church not far from the 6th precinct._

_And a single purple hyacinth in a pool of red._

_He wasn’t able to leave without regrets that day, and every day afterwards._

____

Kym barely holds up the blocking pad up in time to meet Lauren’s fists. She throws one quick punch in succession to the next two, leg carving an arc mid-air to form into a crescent quick. The two women dart back and forth, Will watching silently from the sidelines.

“You’re - way too fast,” pants Kym, shrugging her arms. “Geez, slow down a bit, won’t you?”

“Sorry,” Lauren says, sheepishly scratching the back of her neck. “Whenever I did exercises like this, I was taught to be...brutal, for a lack of a better word.”

Her sparring partner hands her the blocking pads, lips in a thin line. “To kill.”

“It was always to kill,” Lauren says, shrugging. But something in her posture sags. “For all of us.”

“What was it like at the Foxglove?” Kym blurts out, and clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, that came out wrong. I--”

“No, you’re fine,” she says, waving it off as she holds up the blocking pads. The smaller girl shakes her hands off before running forward, striking a blow against the pad. Kym’s punches are less impactful, but accurate. “You both probably have been wondering, right?”

“It wasn’t our place to pry,” Will says gently, catching the blocking pad Lauren throws his way. They both circle around Kym as she attacks. 

“You might as well know. It’s no big secret most of the candidates came from bad families or were indoctrinated. I was the outlier; they only took me because my family started the Snapdragon.” Both her companions' eyes widen. “I know. It’s a lot.”

“Your past is _messed up,_ Lauren Sinclair.”

“Tell that to my past,” she grumbles. “But most of the time...the manipulation was psychological. We trained together despite the rules against attachment, love. It wasn’t a normal childhood, but they made it seem like one on the surface. It was like--” She hesitates, finding the words. “Two worlds altogether. When you were disobedient, they’d torture and hurt you in a million ways in order to break you. And if you ran with their agenda, they’d give you everything you ever wanted.” They’ve all paused in their exercises, Lauren wiping the sweat on her brow.

“I chose the latter path.”

“And Kieran--”

_Is good. For a long time, was the light at the end of the tunnel. Was better than I could ever be._

“Didn’t come willingly. There’s a...psych ward for the more rebellious ones.”

“Lauren,” Kym says softly, hazel eyes fixating on her own, “sometimes, when he moves, he still looks as if he’s in pain--”

“Discussing secrets, are we?” pipes up a voice from behind her, and dread fills her stomach as she sees Kieran behind all three of them, still in the dark clothing from their mission hours ago. 

Before she can speak, Kym does. “I wanted to apologize.”

It’s not what any of them were expecting.

He looks as startled as she does. “I--”

“No, I do, and I think all of us have held enough secrets to last a lifetime,” she says, sticking her finger out. “We...we have to work as a team if we want to save this city. All of us. And that means no more boundaries, no more harboring grudges. It means accepting the wrongs each of us have committed. Even if we did them willingly,” she says pointedly at Lauren, “or didn’t. And each of us have lost _something_ along the way.”

She notices how Kym clenches her watch tighter. 

“So I don’t want us to lose anything else. Understood?”

It’s Will who breaks the silence first, squeezing her hand. “You’re not going to lose anything else.” He sounds more determined than she’s ever seen him be. “I promise.”

Kym smiles softly. “Could say the same for you, lieutenant.” But she turns to Kieran afterwards, stepping forward, clasping his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, or move away. 

“I know both of you were taken around the time that Allendale happened.”

Lauren tightens her arms around her body.

“We were.”

She rakes a hand through her hair, hesitating. “I lost that day, too. I wasn’t quick enough to save my sister. And I know Dani wouldn’t have wanted this,” she says, inhaling sharply, “but I act in her name. The guilt never leaves you.”

_How do you manage it?_ she’d asked ten years ago. _How do you live with the guilt of knowing you could’ve come back - of everyone you leave behind--_

“I know,” Kieran says quietly. “I know.”

A mother, a sister, three guardians, a life. All lost to time.

“We keep moving,” Lauren says eventually, meeting all of their gazes. “It’s what we have to do in their name.”

____

“We’ve got an incoming call,” warns Herakles. “From the phone booth on this block.”

Eurydice sighs. “Who is it?”

He frowns darkly. “You’re going to want to let Persephone take this one.”

____

Lauren stares at the bleak scene before her: the rest of Nightingale Park stretched out in front of her, the trees still barren of their leaves despite it being late February. Snow tumbles down, in a light shower, the rows of gas lamps casting a golden glow out on the empty, barren concrete path. As she walks, she passes a bench, eyes roaming over the engravings.

She isn’t alone, however. She knows that to her right and to her left, the troupe and her three companions are armed. Kym is perched somewhere, sniper rifle at the ready, and Will and Kieran are close by, armed with a gun and sword. Artemis and Apollo somewhere in-between the trees, scouting out what seems to be a seemingly harmless situation, the rest of the troupe on the ground scene.

If Dylan Rosenthal makes one wrong move, they will all move as one to end his life.

The clock chimes eleven. He still isn’t here.

_“Lauren, he still hasn’t shown up.”_

“Wait,” she murmurs to Kieran, tapping out a signal on her pocket.

_He’s coming._

And he does, out of the fog. Dressed in olive and ivory, coat sweeping around him in the wind, scarf over his neck. His white hair is trimmed to perfection, and if she looks closer, a scar dots his right eyebrow. 

Oh, how little she knows about the man in front of her now, who draws closer, closer, closer.

Dylan steps right in front of her. He is - and there is no other word for it - _cold._ Removed, detached. In those gray eyes she once knew, she sees only a pinprick of the emotion that used to be in there that was reserved for her and her alone. 

He speaks, and that’s when the last shred of hope she’d had falls away. 

“I know you’re not alone, Ren.”

She says nothing. He looks around casually, as if he currently isn’t the mastermind anarchist of this entire city. 

“Do you blame me, Dylan?” Lauren whispers, tugging at her own scarf. “You told me to meet you here alone. And given who you are - I hardly expect no tricks up your sleeve.”

His brows furrow. “And even when it comes to me, you don’t trust me?”

She clenches her fists. “I don’t know, Dylan.”

_I don’t know who you are anymore._

“Very well, then.” He sighs. “I’ve come to discuss negotiations, as I said earlier on the phone, and I mean it.”

“And what do those negotiations entail?”

“Simple.” He stares her down. “Your surrender, along with your three friends.”

A crackle of static pierces her ear. No doubt Kieran and the others are furiously discussing Dylan’s proposal among themselves.

“You know I can’t do that,” she manages, once she’s found her voice again. “You know I _can’t.”_

“Why not?”

“Because--”

“I would spare this city from the worst,” he says coldly. “The civil revolution has already begun - that, I cannot stop. That is the people’s will. But Lauren, if you agree to the terms of the surrender, you will prevent more destruction from occurring. We could work together; all of us. I don’t wish for more bloodshed than there has already been.”

“Bloodshed?!” she erupts, face contorting. “You’re responsible for the deaths of _thousands.”_

“I do not control every single piece I own,” is all he says. 

“And I can’t trust you.” Lauren draws closer. Sharp citrus fills her nostrils. “I can’t, even if I wanted to. I can’t even detect what you’re feeling, much less your lies. You’ve closed yourself off from me. Why should I give myself over to your side?”

“You did once.” It’s a brutal fact. “You could do it again. What’s the difference this time?”

_“Lauren!”_ Kym. _“You have to be careful, he’s--”_

“I was blind before,” she answers simply. “I won’t be again.”

“You think yourself their heroine.”

“I’m not,” she spits, tipping her chin up. “You and I know I’m far too brutal to ever be one.”

“I don’t want us to go to war, Ren.”

“You and I already have.”

“And even in the name of your friends, you would still be so selfish?” _Friends._ “Much less for the one you--” He leans in, voice low. “-- _l_ _ove?”_

She freezes, trembling with rage as she faces him again. “You’ve hurt him, too.”

“Unfortunately.” If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was regretful over the affair, their childhood. “I could offer more than you have, Ren. Solutions you’d have to go to the ends of the earth for. You’re already losing time.” He shakes his head. “If only you’d agreed. Then I could’ve aided all of them. Especially the Hawkes family.”

Static.

“What do you mean,” she says slowly, “the Hawkes family?”

“Ah. You’ve been in hiding. My apologies.” Dylan dips his head. “I was prepared to offer medical assistance to Stefan. Unfortunately, his wife has rumored to have passed already.”

Horror spreads through her veins as another voice fills her ears, choked up with years’ worth of grief.

_“No,”_ cries out Will, a silent chorus of wails ripping through her senses. _“No, no, no.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That food fight scene made me wanna cry. What a waste of rice. THE WASTE.
> 
> Anyhow - I won't spoil things, but things aren't as they seem for multiple characters. And there aren't enough deaths in Scheherazade to warrant a 'Minor Character Death' tag. But I still have twists and turns up ahead. I meant it when I said the main four's character arcs are still going, and although they have made significant progress in this installment, the real progress lies in the next two. Get your popcorn buckets ready, because losers, we're ALL getting on the Healing Train.


	32. rediscovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Our structures become our shackles._ Lauren’s voice floated in his head. _It took me far too long to realize that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the following materials: **all past triggers that have been mentioned for Chapters 30-31, with an emphasis on PTSD and trauma recovery.**

Three things happen at once:

One, Lauren removes the pocketknife she’d kept in her coat and swiftly holds it to Dylan’s throat, forcing him down onto his knees. He can’t hear much because of the ringing in his ears, but can make out his friend yelling at the Leader, shaking his scarf so hard he’s afraid she’ll accidentally throttle him. Dylan makes no move to escape from her clutches.

Two, the troupe rushes into action. Eurydice and Hecate are at the helm instantly, the latter holding a whip in her hands, surrounding the two in a circle.

Three, Kieran appears at his side before he can get another word out, with Kym by his side. He barely comprehends her saying something to him before they’re rushing out the forest, snow tumbling down as they run, footfalls silent on the powdery landscape before them. He registers a small weight clinging to his arm, and realizes that somewhere along the way, Kieran has left to assist the others, but Kym has not left, ever-present at his side.

She hasn’t left.

She hasn’t _left._

“We’re crossing back into the Underworld.” Her voice is like a songbird’s, sweet release after an eternity of not being able to hear anything, piercing through the veil, saving him from going six feet under. “We can get to your manor from there. Will--”

“We’re in danger.” He remembers how to talk, but his voice comes out strangled. “Our families--”

“You need to be there,” she insists, pulling him forward. Her hazel eyes are nearly gold in the darkness. “Do you understand? We can’t trust a thing Dylan says. We can’t trust the _Leader,_ period. And your family needs you. We can’t keep hiding from our coworkers anyhow. Even if the Scythe is holding them at arms’ range, we don’t know that for sure.”

Will nods, slowly. “Lauren - she--”

“He can nullify her ability somehow,” Kym says. It’s an educated guess; but given how the sergeant was observing their conversation, she’s probably right. “She wasn’t able to detect any lies if there were any. We’re wasting time.”

Again, he nods, still trapped inside his own body. It’s all come crashing down in one second, one miniscule moment. Amazing, still, the horror of watching the ocean come toppling down on your life, ruining everything you hold dear.

“Will.” She’s close. Her hand is closed around his chin, tugging him forward, and she has to strain to meet his height, on her tiptoes. Her lips are slightly parted, her brow furrowed. A traitorous thought runs through his head: if he moved forward just a bit, he’d be close enough to kiss her. _“Look at me.”_

"I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, Kym," he croaks out, "and I don't know how much more I can take before I topple over."

She strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, eyes searching for something in his own. 

“I’ll catch you,” she says softly, but it’s a stern promise. “Okay? Let’s go.”

____

“You tell me the truth,” Lauren yells, “or I will--”

“I am, Ren.” He doesn’t move in the slightest as her blade does, drawing a small line of red against snow-white skin. “I am. You know this.”

“No, I _don’t!”_ she screams, voice echoing throughout the park. “Your heartbeat is almost inhumanly slow. There isn’t a single stray movement in your visage. You’ve trained yourself to be in control and to control _me._ I can’t trust you, and neither can anyone else.”

_“Pros ta emprós!”_ Hecate’s voice carries throughout the trees as the troupe moves forward, closing in on Dylan and Lauren. “Don’t let him escape!”

“You could kill me,” he whispers. “Right here, right now. If you don’t want to take my word as true. It would be so easy.”

“You’re not the cure-all to this city’s plague.” Her hand is steady, but her body is shaking. Kieran enters the circle in front of her, the troupe making a beeline for the assassin as he steps behind Dylan, one hand on the hilt of his katana. His gaze is nearly burning as he looks coldly upon the Leader. “There would still be the problem of the Apostles and your lackeys.”

“But it would be a start.” He does flinch, however, when Kieran’s katana meets his neck, red and black and white in an intertwining circle. “Wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Kieran drawls. “And as much as I would love to shift this blade just a _little_ to the left - we’re not done with you yet.”

“Pity.” Dylan sighs as he raises his hands. “You did become their monster.”

Her partner grips the hilt of his sword tighter. “So did you.”

“Unfortunately.”

She goes flying across the pavement as Dylan ducks under their twin blades, kicking out. The troupe instantly rushes in to attack him, but Lauren stumbles back up from the ground too late - Morpheus yells in frustration as Dylan moves faster than any of them, darting into the trees, disappearing without a trace.

“Go after him! Don’t let him leave this park!” Eurydice is beside herself with fury as half the troupe splits up to chase after the Leader, gone without a trace. But she knows that he’s already escaped - whatever happened to Dylan in the ten years he was gone was the same thing that happened to her and Kieran.

They were thrown into a pit of darkness, and crawled out taking something back from it.

The set of hands that helps her back up is familiar. It’s only when Kieran says her name again that she realizes she’s holding the knife in her hands far too tightly. He pries open her fingers, flicking the slightly-bloodied blade shut. 

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Are you okay?”

“I let him get away,” she grits out. “I let him get away. I _had_ him.” An arm wraps around her shoulders, and she lets muscle movement take over; burying her head in his chest, breathing in sandalwood. Twin flames, opposing halves, trying as hard as they could to keep away the shadows that surrounded them their whole lives. “And yet - when it came down to it - I couldn’t kill him.”

_I can’t destroy him._

But she doesn’t expect him to kneel before her, framed by muted moonlight, as he holds out his katana. The sheer force of his gaze boring into hers is pure heat rushing through her veins - she couldn’t look away even if she tried. “I swore I wouldn’t take another life. But for you--” Lauren quivers with the weight of her emotion as he bows his head. “My sword is yours, my hands are yours, _mon bien-aimee._ For vengeance, conquest, whatever you need.”

_Wherever you go, I go._

“I don’t want vengeance,” she says, knocking the sword out of his hands as she crushes him in an embrace, holding back the sting of tears. “I can’t manage it any longer. I don’t need--” Lauren falls silent as he holds her tighter, both of them adrift survivors from the shipwreck of some legendary fleet. “I just need you with me. Please, Kier. _Please_. _”_

“Alright,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear, stroking her hair. “I’m here.”

____

The Hawkes Manor’s servants greet him and Kym first with rapid greetings and shy smiles, not drifting too close, but still close enough to convey a sense of urgency and worry over where he’s been all this time since the Redcliff Ball incident. He knows the first two that run up to him - Bianca and Jane, who have always been attentive from the start, who deserve more than his father’s ever given them. Oddly enough, they don’t question her presence - some part of him knows she’s shown up enough times here to be regular company.

A friend, at least; that much he can count on to have by his side as he asks the fated question, sees the glimmer of welcome in their eyes die down.

“Is she--” he gasps out, trying his best not to break down. “Is she--”

Bianca steps forward first. “Are you alright, Master Hawkes? Perhaps you should sit down first--”

“I need to know if she’s--” He breaks off.

“Were you not aware her condition degraded?” asks Jane. Kym tenses up beside him, but then she speaks her next words. “She’s waiting in the usual room, but--”

_Dylan lied._

They don’t get a chance to stop him before he dashes up the stairs, Kym hot at his heels. He slams the doors open to reveal Josephine sitting up in her bed - with Stefan next to her, her hands clasped in his.

“Will?” she asks plaintively. 

His heart cracks down the middle.

“We’ll be back in a second,” Kym says, and before he can say anymore, she rushes him out of the room, tugging him by the collar into an empty hall. Up on the wall rests a portrait of his family - a line of blondes, all groomed to perfection, faces blank as china dolls as they stare into his eyes. She doesn’t say a word as finally, finally, what _boy_ in Will’s heart shoves aside the _man_ and registers the gravity of the situation and mourns, weeps into the sergeant’s chest. She still doesn’t speak as he grips her tighter, clinging onto her waist like the only thing anchoring him to the mortal plane. 

When the storm has passed and most of it has gone, she lifts up his chin, tearing his attention away from the portrait.

“What do you want?”

He has mourned for so long.

“To be human,” he whispers. 

“So do I need to kick the crap out of your dad, or--”

“How do you know literally _everything?”_

Kym raises an eyebrow. “You two don’t exactly look at each other very...nicely.”

“It’ll be fine,” he says, rubbing at the redness under his eyes. “It’ll be fine. I have to do this. I can handle it.” 

And for once, he knows he must, and can.

_____

  
  


When she and Kieran land in the Sinclair library without a sound, this time no one is around to disturb the silence. She’s done this twice now; perhaps it isn’t old wounds that call her this time, but new memories that do.

“My uncle had reports on the Phantom Scythe’s operations,” she explains, pacing down the hallway towards the shelves in the back. “Most likely if we start there, we can possibly discern what Dylan’s future plans for the city are along with Belladonna’s.”

“She’s under his control now. I don’t think that’s going to go well.”

“She never did like being controlled,” murmurs Lauren, as they both stand in front of the imposing glass cases. It’s Kieran who does the honors, undoing the locks as they uncover a decade’s worth of the past in front of them. Some of Tristan’s old communications are here, along with other socialist paperwork scattered alongside Snapdragon pamphlets. “Look through the evidence first. I have something I have to do.”

He doesn’t question it as she storms across the second floor silently, rushing past the spare rooms as she heads towards her old room. Everything’s in the same place, but she aims for her desk first, pulling out the stitched-together board that consisted of her life’s past, broken pieces and all. Without much preamble, she reached for an ink pen and spare paper, writing a quick note to tape to the wall before she does the deed.

_The manor is yours, Lucy. I never had much use for it in truth, and it’s time my family ends tradition now._

_I won’t be coming back any longer. It’s time I let bygones be bygones, and no further. It’s what my family would’ve wanted until the end. They made their mistakes - mistakes I swear I won’t make._

_-L.S_

She inhales sharply as she presses a thumb to the first tack holding the red thread in place. A sharp tug of her fingers undoes the needle, and the first string falls to the ground. Two, three, seven threads fall soon after, pictures now in a seemingly-random assortment on the board once again.

Lauren flips open the lighter she’d kept in her pocket, and without further preamble, holds up the last remnant of her past to the flame, watching the edges blacken as soon as it touches fire. 

“I let you go,” she whispers under her breath, as she watches the paper curdle into nothing, black ash trailing in the winter air, floating outside the open window, mixing with the snowfall.

_____

  
  


“I couldn’t find you for days, Will,” says Stefan, attempting to touch his son’s shoulders, but he shys away, both of them standing at opposite ends of the parlor room. Kym can hear everything outside; he knows this, but it doesn’t bother him. The patriarch of the Hawkes family is his only concern now, the last barrier he must vault over to stop the black water closing over his head. “Where were you? The precinct is in shambles, and as their lieutenant--”

“Of course,” he says, laughing mirthlessly as he tosses his bangs to the side, hand on his hip. “Of course the one thing you’d be worried about now is my _position._ It’s always about _position,_ isn’t it, father?!”

_“William--”_

“It was never about what I wanted. Always.”

“I wanted what was best for you,” Stefan insists. “For this family. Ever since--”

“Ever since _what? Allendale?_ Or my mother’s _sudden illness?”_ he retorts, gesturing. “You always wanted a compromise. To settle things. To handle it perfectly - and you wanted me to do that, too, didn’t you?” It comes out now, tumbling down, the burdens he’s carried for so long. But that doesn’t stop the guilt pressing down on his chest. He can’t hate Stefan. It’s always been more complicated than that.

_Our structures become our shackles._ Lauren’s voice floated in his head. _It took me far too long to realize that._

“I love Josephine as much as you do.”

“I can’t believe a single word you say,” he mutters, clasping his hands in front of him. “And for the longest time, I did believe all of it. That you would do whatever was necessary for her. And yet, ever since she’s started treatments under your advisor, she’s gotten worse for years now.”

“Will!” Stefan has become both shocked and infuriated by the accusation. “I have only helped her.”

“And you were helping me too, right? Ten years ago, when you told me to keep my mouth shut about Allendale. Because it would take away _your_ position in society. Because the Hawkes family has always been close to the Phantom--”

His father’s hand is like a vice over his wrist. “Will. Do not _do this.”_

He shudders, but this time, it isn’t out of fear. He’s been scared for far too long, and now the mask he’s worn for far too long is cracking at last. “Did you even know about the children they took? Did you even - all those years - look for _her?_ Or was it all too good, lounging on a throne of lies?”

“I would never--”

“You weren’t part of them, true. But that makes it worse,” he spits, shrugging his hand away from Stefan’s grip. “You let it go on because it fed your power. You helped the king suppress the people. And even after his death, you played both sides, because it fed your own agenda.”

“What now, then?” Stefan asks at last, towering over him. His father’s eyes are a reflection of his own - but with age and time, they have become nothing but cold mirrors, splinters of a past. “If you knew what was truly good for this family, you would’ve acted a long time ago. Good for you.” Will winces as he touches his shoulder. “But you don’t.”

A click of metal. Kym.

“I do.” He nods, and on cue, police sirens wail on time. “Because I’m the master of this family. Not you.”

They burst into the house below at the same time Kym kicks open the double doors, gun pointed directly at Stefan’s head.

“You’re under arrest,” she drawls, sly victory on her face. “I’d say I’m sorry, _Chief,_ but then I’d be lying.”

____

_I told you not to play with fire,_ her mother said once, before kicking her out on the curb.

That was the last time she ever saw her.

Now, Belladonna watches the match in her hands spiral up in flames. The fire goes out as a gust of wind shoots through the warehouse, a slim figure crossing through the threshold. The Huntress pulls off her hood, knife in one hand.

“We’ve been given new orders,” she rasps through cracked lips. “Rosenthal’s going after the traitors and their little pets alone.”

“I figured as much,” says Dunya, looking around the oddly empty factory. “Where’s Athena?”

The wood splinters in her fingers as she snaps the match in two.

“None of your concern.”

“I think it is.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft too,” she groans, tapping a manicured nail against her hip. “I suppose there’s nothing that can be done about that. Well, if it must make sense to you - she didn’t have what it took. And I suppose neither do you. What will you choose, Dunya?”

The teenager’s dark eyes widen as Belladonna’s hires come out of the shadows, surrounding them.

“My own terms,” she says finally, unsheathing two daggers, “my own path.”

Another betrayal.

The viper whistles. “Take her out!”

And surprisingly, Dunya shakes her head, grinning widely as Belladonna finds herself surrounded by the very men she’d blackmailed and manipulated into servitude, weapons at the ready.

“About that.” A balisong points directly at her face. “Now comes the part where _I_ double-cross _you.”_

_I told you not to play with fire._

____

It’s rather quiet on the bridge.

In the distance, she can hear the wailing of sirens as the automobiles come rushing to cart Stefan away. Will has long gone with Lukas and the others; both of them had been welcomed back with open arms, after being gone for long. But she’d opted to stay behind for only a while, promising to rejoin the others soon. She could walk to the precinct office anyhow. 

The crack on her watch is bright in the light of the sun setting on the horizon. It casts a light pink spotlight on everything, warming her bones as the snow crunches under her boots. 

It seems like now is the time for letting things go, after all.

_You have people that care about you. So don’t worry about me, alright? Don’t be lonely without me._

“Sorry I broke our promise, Danielle,” she whispers, thumbing the glass on the pocketwatch. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

_Don’t be lonely without me._

In one swift motion, she raises her arm back, and lets the chain of gold fly in an arc, clock spinning mid-air before it falls into the river with a small splash.

The weight in her pocket recedes.

____

Lauren had objected to him going alone - but he’d refused, because of course he had. Dylan was clearly out for all their heads, but if she was to tag along with any of them, it would pose a greater risk. It’s why he currently walks down the docks alone, after rumors of Belladonna losing power had reached their ears yesterday. She’d lose her mind if she found out that he was planning on confronting the Viper head-on.

But that’s not the only reason why he’s here alone. 

The shadows of his past have caught up to him at last. Out of the corner of his eye, he can spot blood splattered on white walls, hyacinth petals crushed violet at his feet. They never leave - they never have, and the sight of it all makes him dizzy. Kieran barely catches his weight as he braces himself against the side of an abandoned warehouse, gasping for breath.

“You alright there, kid?”

“I’m not--”

He breaks off.

Standing in front of him is the woman he’d spotted at the Carmine Carmellia, a cigar in her hand. Her black hair is woven tightly into a bun, and this time, a dark fur coat covers her shoulders. Apparently, she doesn’t seem to be fazed by his very visible weapon nor the literal tortured look in his eyes.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Get lost,” he growls, but it comes out as a weakened plea. “Now that I’ve seen your face--”

“Please,” she snorts, waving her cigar, smoke rising from it. “I’ve seen yours a thousand times before. No harm is coming to either of us. Besides--” she motions to his hunched-over form. “--I highly doubt you can use that katana of yours properly.”

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, once he can find his voice.

Her eyes darken at that, and she turns around, motioning to him over her shoulder.

“Call me Ciara,” she says. “Follow me.”

____

He’s getting weaker. 

Ciara - as she called herself - seems to sense this, oddly. And she doesn’t make any startled movements when he almost practically collapses to the floor of what seems to be a broken-down dockhouse by the ocean, seawater pooling at his feet. 

“Hallucinations, trouble breathing...dear me, you’re in trouble.”

“I’m not going to ask again,” he chokes out. “Who are you?”

She flings her coat onto a nearby hook. The shadows and the light nearly merge as one as they poke through the roof, casting miniature spotlights on the wooden floor, which creaks as she walks towards him. The liquid at his feet is nearly a pellucid cerulean. “Someone who knows you. How long has this been going on? The symptoms.”

“And you didn’t bother to contact me before?” Kieran manages a ghost of his old laugh, rough around the edges with thinly-veiled sarcasm. 

“Couldn’t,” she throws back sharply. Something in her face, now that he can see it - is familiar. The shape of her eyes, the cheekbones, the mouth. “Was too dangerous. Now that the Leader’s focused his power on his plans and consolidated all his pawns close to him - and the fact you’re outside of it - I can finally approach you without a knife to my throat.”

“You’re a double agent.”

“Not quite,” she says, a small _tsk_ escaping her mouth. “Now answer me. How long has this been going on?”

“Long enough.”

“Kid, I swear to--”

“Two months,” he spits out. “Two months, alright? I don’t trust you in the slightest.”

“That much is clear. Wasn’t so bad telling the truth, huh?” She switches off the gas stove, pouring some steaming liquid into a cup. Before Kieran can object, it’s shoved in his mouth, bitter liquid nearly stinging his tongue. He nearly chokes once it’s all down, coughing loudly. 

“What the actual hell was _that?”_

“It’ll take away the worst of the symptoms for now,” she explains. “Oh, don’t wince like that. You used to like ginseng when you were a child.”

“When I--” He breaks off, freezing.

“Told you.” There’s a small glimmer of something in those cold, black eyes. “I know you.”

Instead of choosing the unwise _who are you_ line once again out of fear he’ll get strangled alive, Kieran swallows down his protests. “What’s happening to me?”

She shakes her head. It’s almost out of grief. “Post-traumatic stress. One of the more extreme cases with you. No wonder. You’ve been gone a long time.”

It isn’t sadness that crosses his mind first. Instead, it’s long-bubbling anger that surfaces instead, coming to a head after all these years. “You know me. You knew me when I was a child. Why--” He’s heating up, burning inside. “Why _did no one come for me?”_

She’s silent at that.

_“Answer me!”_

Ciara’s lips thin. “You hold the answers. You’ve forgotten them. They made sure to make you forget, most likely.”

“The psych ward?!”

“What else?” She presses a slim hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ve got to fix this before your body revolts. Take off your shirt.”

He doesn’t object; the fever is too much. Saltwater pools around his skin at the edges, cold to the touch but a relief as he sinks down onto the floor, back against hard wood. Ciara leans over him, a small needle in her hands. Kieran flinches as she touches his forehead. “What exactly are you planning to do to me?”

“Unlock your repressed memories,” is all she says. “It’s going to hurt. But you have to remember. It’s the only way your mind won’t completely turn in on itself.”

_You are in pain, Hyacinth._

“Do it,” he says eventually, closing his eyes.

_I’ve been hurt a million times over._

She raises the needle.

_What’s one more time?_

____

It doesn’t hurt, the needle against his skin. Nor do the rest of the needles. 

The memories come as dream-like visions, almost. Flashes of a garden. A woman’s voice. Disembodied sounds and colors, splatters of oil paints on a canvas. And then they form into visions, eventually: starting at the beginning. A man with bright turquoise eyes. A woman with long black hair. 

His father always had a thing for ancient weaponry. Namely swords.

_“Kieran!”_ His mother’s voice. _“Kieran, where are you?”_

Among the hyacinth garden, in a tree, perched atop a branch, watching the birds fly by.

_“Don’t fight it.”_

Ciara.

It’s starting to sting.

_“Remember.”_

He is falling.

_“Remember.”_

_“You can’t do this, it’s too risky, why tell our son about this--”_

_“Sweetheart, you have to understand. I can’t protect him for long, although you and I both hold power in society. I have to hide him.”_

_“As if this isn’t your fault?! You and your past deals with those - those monsters, they--”_

_“Hina, please. I want the best for him.”_

He’d been hiding that day, before they came.

_White comes from a family with a select history…_

____

_“He isn’t complying.”_

_Another yell. He’d gotten past the guards this time. But there was no time to think about the bruises on his arms, his legs. All he could do was break past the gates, white clothing far too loose on him, black hair scattered around his eyes._

_One breath, one noise._

_“RUN!”_

____

_“You failed.”_

_The katana looked up from the floor, staring at him, the last vestiges of a family he once remembered. He bit down on the cloth as the metal whip sunk into his flesh again, as the man behind him raised the weapon once more. Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

_It was almost over._

_He just had to endure a little more, a little more._

_“You failed. Are you going to fail again?”_

_He had regretted his first kill. She was only a little girl, and he had tried to save her. He couldn’t._

_“You do not save life. Do you know why that is?”_

_Seventeen. Eighteen._

_He bit down harder, the tang of copper filling his mouth._

_“Because you are a monster,” his captors said over and over. “Because you are nothing but a monster.”_

_Twenty._

_Kieran slumped forward in his chair, hands pressed to his face._

____

_“Tonight, Lauren…” Kieran hung his head. “Tonight, I was assigned a family on Hansbury Street.”_

_Lauren took a sharp intake of breath at the mention. A family. An entire family. Children. He knew what she was thinking. The thoughts must’ve come pouring out, one after another - how had he - how could he - how could he. He is a monster, to do such things--_

_“I did terrible things,” he said, laughing. “I did terrible things. Awful ones. Do you know what they wanted as evidence? Do you know, Lauren? What they make their most valued killers do? They want proof,” he practically growled, and she shivered._

_He was close to tears._

_He was a lost cause, a--_

_She rested a hand on his back, in between his shoulderblades. “You’re human.” And when he curled in on himself, she forced him to look at her, grabbing at his chin. “Do you understand me? You’re the most human person I’ve ever met. I would know. I’ve seen you do things for me,” she said, and Lauren’s voice wobbled. “I know you’d do anything for anyone. Don’t you dare forget that.”_

____

_“There we go.”_ Her again.

_I can’t forgive myself._

_I’ll never forgive myself._

_I can’t._

_I don’t know what will happen if I do._

_“And yet others have found it in their hearts to forgive you,”_ she admonishes. _“And yet.”_

____

_"I think all of us have held enough secrets to last a lifetime,” the sergeant had said, sticking her finger out. “We...we have to work as a team if we want to save this city. All of us. And that means no more boundaries, no more harboring grudges. It means accepting the wrongs each of us have committed. Even if we did them willingly, or didn’t. And each of us have lost something along the way.”_

_She’d looked at him then. There had been no hatred in those hazel eyes._

_“So I don’t want us to lose anything else. Understood?”_

_____

_“We’ll never become their monsters.”_

_A lie._

_But he’d never had much of a choice._

_“There it is,”_ Ciara says, brushing a hand over his forehead, and he--

____

_\--remembers._

____

His eyes snap open. The first thing to greet him is the light, and nothing but it. Water pools at his fingers, instead of blood.

“I know you,” he rasps. “You - my mother’s--”

“I’ve made several mistakes as your aunt, Kieran,” she says quietly. “One of them was not acting sooner. And I don’t expect forgiveness.”

“I wasn’t going to give it.”

“Good.” She stands, leaving him to haul himself up. Somewhere along the way, in the fit of fever, his hair had come loose around his shoulders. “Sake’s expecting me to report in soon. Annoying little bastard.”

“You’re staying?”

She looks back at him, brow furrowed. “Some of us have to stay. You have to leave. If this city falls to ruin eventually, I don’t want you to be there.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re foolish, then.”

He shakes his head. “In all retrospect, _aunt,_ you’re correct. I should run. But I don’t want innocents slaughtered in cold blood.”

Ciara’s scowl is less rough around the edges this time. “Too much of your mother’s heart in you.” But she doesn’t leave his eyes as she crosses her arms, waiting for something, almost. “Do you know who you are?” she asks, and the question is final.

Kieran does not move immediately. But when he does, he stands tall, the pellucid water dripping from his bare skin like rivers over scars, washing away the shadows pooling at his feet. The light is everywhere, glimmering, casting a flicker of sun onto the spot where the roof closes in within the old house: for a second he stands there, all walls stripped bare, all defenses broken.

“My name is Kieran White,” he says hoarsely, but with an unbreakable firmness, “and I am _not a monster.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given current events...I think it's safe to say we all need healing right now.
> 
> To confront the main 4's trauma and especially Will, Kym and _Kieran's_ in this chapter was an experience. They mean the world to a lot of us, and I hope I've done them justice. I think that Scheherazade's second theme has started to show its true colors alongside its main one: legacy and past wounds, and how we open or close those wounds further. We've only one more chapter before some pretty intense stuff starts. I _literally_ cannot believe we've made it this far - it's stunning to think I've written 120k+ on sheer will, intense yearning and extreme self-indulgence alone.
> 
> (BTW, Scheherazade's estimated word count is 150k in total when it's complete. I've done the math. It's a chonker. Tell your friends.)


	33. rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lauren,” he rasps, and thumbs away the wetness dotting at the corners of her eyes. It strikes her then, at last. That look. That same look he’s given her all these years.
> 
> Lightning strike, adrenaline rush.
> 
>  _So you do,_ she thinks with a fast-fading vengeance. _So you do love me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks down door* I'M BACK, BABY.
> 
> No content warnings this chapter - but you'll see eventually why.

Now that she doesn’t have a mission to run almost every other day, it’s far easier to appreciate sunrises. Lauren’s eyes scan over rooftops, high peaks crowning the dark city - dark still; lit up only by fading lamps with their flames flickering in the wind - in a wreath of colors as she lands on a particularly high one near Nightingale Park, crouching and coming to a standstill as she settles down on the edge of layered metal. It’s a rare clear day, and she takes in the sights as best as she can: a small sliver of peace in the chaos, the moon and sun slowly rotating positions. The moon herself is still visible in the rose-tinted sky, fading away as the star comes up to meet the horizon.

She knows who’s behind her before he even speaks.

“Mind if I keep you company?”

“You know there’s always space for a certain somebody,” Lauren says, nudging Kieran with her elbow as he sits next to her, long legs dangling over the edge. “You were tracking me, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Stalker.”

He snorts. “Can’t call me much of one if I’ve saved you from being shot by arrows twice by now. I do recall a certain someone being very stubborn at seventeen climbing Palais Verdun and risking near-death were it not for me being there.”

“That was five years ago, and secondly, no one is going to shoot an arrow from this height - _stop that!”_ she blusters, as he erupts into laughter. “Are you going to ever let that go?”

“But it’s funny when you’re flustered.” Kieran’s grin only grows wider as she crosses her arms, huffing. 

“I saved you from a bullet and more. So we’re even.”

“Fair, then.” 

Lauren merely grunts, but her body language gives her true mood away as she leans on Kieran’s shoulder. “It’s a long way from the Foxglove.” She glances over at him, then turns her attention back to the moon vanishing into the dawn sky. “Back when I was actually arrogant enough to think I could take on this city on my own. Just not in the way I actually would.”

“And back when I thought I could do it all alone.” When he smiles at her, framed by daylight, all she can do is stare in awe. “We’ve come a long way since then.”

“We have.”

His smile grows sinister as she gets up, holding a hand out. “Race you back.”

“I can do it in five.”

“Three,” he retorts, and dashes off, but she’s at his heels already, laughing as both of them match pace as they move soundlessly, as one, as they always have, but this time in the light.

____

Something about the telephone in her hands is particularly threatening at first glance. Not because of what it is, but whose voice it’ll project onto the walls of the phone booth in a mere second. Lauren holds the speaker to her ear, twirling a finger around the cord nervously. If they’d tracked down the correct signal, he should be with her at any moment. But there’s no avoiding this confrontation.

She should’ve done this a long time ago, really.

_“Lauren.”_

Her voice is a low rasp as she answers. “Dylan.”

_“I’m surprised you called so soon.”_

“You and I need to--” She sighs, fingers threading through the strands of auburn that have fallen in front of her forehead. “--talk. Can we just talk?” she asks, slumping against the frosted glass. The tension in her body unravels; even though he’s not here, she still can’t pretend in front of him. It comes rushing in all at once, the revelation: that he is her enemy, for now and for evermore. That this story can only end in either death of tragedy. It nearly swallows her whole. “Please.”

He doesn’t speak for a while. 

“I don’t know how we got here,” she whispers. _You should be interrogating him. You should be asking him about his future plans. He won’t give anything of use to you, but you can prepare otherwise._ Lauren fails to command herself. “I know you and I walked different paths of life, but _this -_ anarchy isn’t right, Dylan. Thousands of lives lost. The people are already calling for change. You don’t have to destroy--”

_“Don’t have to?”_ His voice suddenly sharpens. _“Don’t have to destroy a system that was broken from the moment it was started? Don’t have to destroy a system that you and your family contributed to all too well?”_

The last part is an arrow to the heart. She swallows harshly. “That doesn’t mean we have to set the world on fire.”

_“And what would you suggest, then?”_

Lauren bumps her forehead against the booth. “The revolution has to happen, and afterwards, we would have to fix things from the inside out.”

_“Who exactly would ‘we’ be, then?”_

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps, the anger receding as soon as it comes. 

_“You’ve learned. But you’re still clinging to the faith of the old system.”_

“Things can change if we force them to change.”

_“You’re not talking about Ardhalis anymore, are you?”_

“No.” There’s no use pretending now. “No, I’m not.”

_“Things aren’t always as you left them,”_ is all he says in response, the comment clearly directed to her. _“I became the one person you thought I’d never become. And you became a killer.”_

“We both have blood on our hands.” Lauren winds the cord around her palm, red tainting her skin out of frustration or nervousness; perhaps both. “I’m hardly pretending I don’t. But you - you have the power to stop this further. End this madness. Even if we don’t see eye to eye, we could make this work.”

He sighs, and it’s the most emotion she’s heard come out of him in years. _“It’s been a long time, Ren. There hasn’t been a ‘we’ for a decade.”_

“You still call me that.”

Silence.

She squeezes the phone tighter. “Don’t make me--”

_“If you will not surrender, then prepare for war,”_ is all he says, once again emotionless. _“You know that as well as I do.”_

“I loved you once,” Lauren blurts out. And there it is, the final strike between them. She nearly keels over with the force of it, breathing in dusty air.

_“And now?”_

“I know you. That’s all.”

_And you don’t know me._

_“I suppose you do,”_ he muses. _“I, on the other hand - you’ve changed, Ren.”_

“So have you.” She balls her free hand into a fist. “Do you remember the garden?”

_“Always. That was the one thing I could never forget.”_

“I fell, once,” Lauren recalls, shaking her head a bit. “You were there to call for help, though. You would’ve made a great doctor.”

_“You would’ve made a great detective.”_

She rubs at the beginnings of tears pricking at her eyes. “Dylan. Please, whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it. The future doesn’t have to be etched in brimstone and fire. You know what I’m capable of. You know what the others are capable of. If you declare war on Ardhalis--”

_“--then you know what I’m capable of,”_ he whispers. It’s final, the last thread between them snapping. _“See you sooner or later, Ren.”_

The call disconnects.

____

“Your old weapon, I presume?” asks Eurydice, hovering at the front of the tent. “That must’ve been a heavy weight to carry around.”

Lauren whips around, stepping back at the sight of her mentor, who parts the curtains to her and Kieran’s tent. Katoptris’s two halves shine up at her from the cloth spread out on their shared bed. “It’s sentimental. It’s hardly practical, however. I’ll have to get rid of it sooner or later.”

“Beautiful craftsmanship, really.” Quickly, she steps back to let Eurydice trail a hand over the gold metal. “Whoever crafted this had a dedicated hand. Are you sure you don’t want to reforge it?”

She frowns. “That wouldn’t be possible.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Eurydice says, and the oddest smirk passes over her face. “There’s an empty blacksmith forge in the back of the park from where the animals were kept. Herakles used to tend it - for the lions and horses and all. I’m definitely not suggesting anything,” she trills, tossing her brown hair, “but it wouldn’t be hard to get it up and running again with his help if someone were to craft a new weapon in - let’s say - two days, give or take.”

“Why two days?”

Eurydice crosses her arms. “Your partner has a plan. We’ve been discussing it amongst ourselves. He actually called for you, which is why I’m here.”

“Kieran’s putting together a battle strategy,” she says darkly. “I told him about Dylan’s call - we don’t know when he’ll strike, but it’s soon. If anything, he’ll gun for the High Council first; then the Aevasthers. I’ve been running around the lower districts too, including the south shore - rumors are that a large riot is happening within the week.”

“Can you handle it?”

“Don’t have much of a choice,” she snorts. “What’s your plan for the troupe?”

“Hecate and I will lead the team into the catacombs. Most likely forces will be stationed there as planned. Once the Leader is defeated, and the Apostles are dealt with, we want for nothing more.” Her mentor shrugs fluidly, looking all too well like her namesake in the halo of light that pours over her from the outside. “What are you fighting for?”

Lauren tosses her head back. “Peace, I suppose. I’ve never had much of it.” She rolls her eyes at Eurydice’s knowing look. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“What?” she shoots back, arrogance rubbed all over her grin. 

“I swear, you and K--” She rubs at her temples. “Very well. Show me the forge, please.”

____

  
  


She’s pretty sure this is the worst event of her life to ever occur. And it is mostly in part to the very, very exasperated and grumpy passengers in the backseat of the automobile she is currently driving down Amity Street. Kym gratefully stops at an intersection, craning her head back to look at Lauren, Kieran and Will all jammed up against each other, nearly matching scowls.

It isn’t just because of space, however. The 11th precinct is near here, and she knows that none of them are enthusiastic to be there. Shadows hover over the two former assassins’ faces, no doubt because of the fact that they’re crossing back into the lion’s den - Will, however, she can’t figure out.

“You know, we are seeking out the patrol unit’s help this time,” she comments, as she starts driving again. “You guys don’t have to look like someone just got killed--”

“Too soon,” Lauren and Kieran chorus.

“Right,” comments Kym, grimacing. “Seriously, it’s not that bad. We’re all on the same side here. And we’ve been through a lot together.” She tries for a wide, toothy smile. “I think it would be lovely if we were to go on a very fulfilling emotional journey with a more upbeat attitude!”

“They’re going to kill me,” deadpans Lauren.

“Ditto.” Kieran settles back in his seat.

“Lukas is going to kill me,” drones Will, head in his hands. “He had to lead for days. He’s probably going to spray hot coffee in my face when we return out of the blue after being declared missing.”

“You lack spirit,” she says, shaking her head. “Lila will neutralize him.”

_“No one neutralizes Lukas Randall.”_

“They don’t.” Kieran shudders, Will looking over at him with a shared horror. Kym recalls the one time the _archivist_ tried to offer said coffee to the officer and had been rejected with a silent promise of death. “I...would know.”

“I can’t believe we actually agree on this.”

“Me either, lieutenant.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any worse, we’re here,” Kym says, planting her foot on the brakes. The police building towers above them, the masked symbol of the APD freshly redone on the glass doors. “Time to say your prayers, kids.”

It turns out her three friends are both right and wrong. 

“Morning, lieutenant,” Lukas drawls, his fury so potent that Kym can sense an entire five-mile radius of sheer death radiating outwards from the man. It’s only when Lila enters the fray, greeting both with a relieved smile, that Will’s former substitute clicks the safety on the gun in his belt. 

“We were on the run,” he chokes out, still stiff as a board. “I apologize for not giving an early warning, Lu - officer.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that now!” bursts Lila in a sudden fit of emotion, making them startle. She grips Kym by the shoulders, a slight shine to her eyes eclipsed by half-moon glasses. “You were both in danger! Lukas can be as mad as he wants about it, but you’re both safe, and that’s what matters.” Her sandy hair bounces as she turns around. “Isn’t that right, _Lukas?”_

“I--” Kym tries to keep in her laughter. The normally stoic man has turned the slightest shade of red; a now frazzled mess in the presence of his secretary. “I suppose so, yes. I’m glad you’re back, lieutenant,” he says grudgingly.

Her eyes flit down to their right hands - both of them don matching silver rings. Looks like her matchmaking skills aren’t as rusty as she thought; it’s been years since she’d gotten an actual couple together. They aren’t the most emotionally constipated pairing to ever exist - _that_ mantle would have to go to the two female officers she’d practically locked in a closet three years back. Kym makes a mental note to ask when the wedding will be taking place when all this is over. _If_ this all ends peacefully and all them are alive by the end. But she knows the first option is impossible, and the second--

No, she can’t think about that now.

“As much as we’re glad to be back, we’re here on serious business,” Kym says, pricking up at the sound of the door. Dread lines her stomach. “The city is in imminent danger, and we’ve brought along help.”

The entire office reacts the way she’d expect them too. But she and Will move as one, and they’re faster than the guns pointed at Lauren and Kieran’s heads. They, too, have long-realized who their officer and archivist were - certainly _not_ two innocents concealing a forbidden office romance.

Although it doesn’t help that they’re holding hands for reassurance at all. But Kieran looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon whole, and that’s when she recalls what he said about the system. Lauren’s constantly flitting gaze is no doubt due to her guilt as formerly posing as one of _them._

“You’re with them?” asks one of the officers in the back, coldly regarding both assassins.

Will takes the lead as always, neutralizing the situation. “They are. And I’m not asking for your forgiveness in regards to them.” 

“Like we ever would?” Lukas snorts. “Please.”

Even Lila looks wary. “Lieutenant, I don’t think…”

Kym speaks before Lauren can. “That doesn’t matter now. We’re taking a huge risk by being here alone, but we have no choice.” She and Will share a look, preparing for the bigger announcement. “The Phantom Scythe’s final strike to Ardhalis is coming soon, and we need to stop it. All precincts will be alerted if our superiors allow. And all four of us have information you need to hear.”

____

Herakles and her make an oddly efficient team. 

In the past, medieval forges would’ve been slow-working enough to last weapon-making weeks. But the forge in the creeping thicket of Nightingale Park is all fiery metal and steam, a set of iron bastions littered around a low-cut clearing, pumping out blazing coal in their stomachs hot enough to burn any weapon, melt them down into nothing but curling rivers of glistening material and remake them anew. She can spot a few remnants of the animals that once came here for maintenance - horseshoes resting against a wall, open stables in the back. There’s a main stove in the center, roaring red, a bucket hanging high above. A set of pokers and tools, a well, barrels of copper and bronze and silver. 

The lion-tamer is a silent man for the most part, but they manage to get the forge up and running with enough coal to spare. When she holds out Katoptris, slightly intimidated by his height and build, he does nothing but wield the broken sword gently in his hands.

“Clean break,” he grunts. “This’ll be easy to fix.”

“I don’t know if I want it the same.”

“It won’t come out the same during the process, anyhow,” he says. “Do you want something new?”

Herakles nods, and that’s that. “Let’s get started.”

They do.

It turns out reforging is - however - _very,_ very tiring. It’s incredibly melancholy to see the sword she’s had for a while be melted into nothing but gold and bronze, but that feeling soon fades away as Lauren quickly realizes that in order to reuse the metal, she has to keep it baking in the mold for hours, and that baking it requires pumping fuel into the stove, and soon enough, enough hours have passed that when Kym drags the two men along with her to see what she’s up too, she’s half-awake.

“Hello,” she chirps into her ear.

Lauren nearly slaps her in the face as she jumps back, hissing as the heat from the forge nearly scalds her skin off. Kieran is looking away with an immense amount of concentration, and it’s only then she realizes that she’d stripped off her shirt and tied her hair up to keep the fire from melting her alive, leaving nothing on her person but loose pants and a tight tank top.

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” she hisses, scrambling to shovel more coal into the fire.

“The day Kym doesn’t make someone wish they were dead is never,” deadpans Will, watching her curiously. “You’ve been gone for a while. Everything alright?”

“I’m an angel, Hawkes,” the sergeant quips. “I second what he says. Team Eclipse is always here to prevent our dear Lauren from working to death.”

“Eclipse?" She recalls Lune and Soleil too late. "Ah. No, I’m fine. It’s just that this stupid forge won’t afford me any distractions--” she says, grunting as she loads more fuel into the oven, “--while I get it working.”

“Oh, you’re fixing Katoptris, right?”

Lauren whips around to scowl at Kieran. He’s finally looking at her, grinning as he perches on a stool. “And I assume he told you about my sword?”

“Well, we didn’t want another curry incident, so yes, he regaled us with tales of sword youth,” Kym says airily, waving her hands around. “Your ponytail’s coming out, Laur. Let me fix it.”

“Sword youth,” she grumbles, stretching out the tension in her back gratefully as the shorter girl comes around to unwind her auburn updo, the sharply-cut strands falling into her face and going back just as fast as she tugs Lauren’s hair into a small ponytail, procuring pins out of nowhere to clip the smaller strands behind her ears. Something about the gesture warms her heart. “If you told them what I think you did--”

“You were very attached,” Kieran says, shrugging. “I was too. Although it was very entertaining to tell them about the time you nearly fell out of a tree trying to balance your shortsword.”

**“I’ll kill you.”**

“You love me.”

She holds in a guttural screech as Will laughs, turning into a cough as he hides behind his hand. “Sure thing, Kier. Just don’t make me unearth the one time you got your ribs kicked in and had me spoonfeed you soup for a week.”

Kym looks positively delighted by this. “You babied him?”

“She did _not--”_

“Sounds like it,” pipes in Will. “You know, between the four of us, Kym and I thought _she_ was the Purple Hyacinth at first.”

“You absolute _maniac,”_ drawls Kieran, clutching his chest. “You _wound me._ I can’t believe you would think--”

“They had every right to believe that.” Lauren smirks widely at his frustration as she passes by him to grab a metal clamp. “Anyhow, I shouldn’t distract myself--”

Her protest turns into a yell as he grabs her waist, pulling her towards him. Lauren barely registers the feeling of being sprawled on his lap, back against his chest, before she nearly pops a vein in her forehead. 

_“Kieran.”_

“What?” he purrs. “I’m not doing anything. I’m not a _distraction,_ right?”

“I really don’t know how you two became friends,” Will says, shaking his head as Lauren attempts to scramble out of his grasp and fails.

____

“All the evidence points to a coup occurring within the next few days.” A baton taps the map in front of the troupe and Lauren, in front with her other two companions while Kieran narrates the situation before them. “From what Lauren gathered through her call with the Leader, we have reason to believe that this is a fact. Remnants of bombs are still stored in the catacombs, and there is the problem of civil protest to be dealt with as well.”

“We could shorten the time for the plan to be executed to one day,” Lauren suggests, crossing her legs. “We don’t know when and where Dylan will strike, but he certainly won’t give us time. Now that the 11th precinct is backing us, we have enough forces to seize the castle, surround the city, and prevent the Phantom Scythe from striking.”

“If only Hermann had actually listened to my advice,” Kym grits out, “we’d have the backing of the other precincts as well.”

“If there’s anything the police force doesn’t like listening to, it’s actual truth,” Kieran comments, shaking his head. “But we have to deal with what we have. We have enough weaponry from the docks to last us a fair fight against Scythe forces. Any objections?”

“None,” Hecate says. “So allow me to make things clear: you four will be at the front lines storming the castle. We’ll handle the catacombs, and the police will attempt to mollify the Scythe from damaging the city further.”

“As we can’t manage a civil revolution that has to and should occur, pretty much.”

“Lovely. Will the lieutenant and sergeant be on offense?”

“Defense,” Lauren answers. “Kym can aim from meters away, and so can Will, but he’ll be a short-range gunner.”

“With the Hyacinth as offense,” adds Eurydice. “And his partner--”

_“Philtatos,”_ Artemis says with a small snicker. Kieran raises a brow, but doesn’t ask what the foreign nickname means. But Hecate seems to get it, lips twitching upwards before she corrects herself. “Right. As I was saying, she will be alongside him. Do you plan a hostage situation, then?”

“Hardly. The point is to get the royals to stand down by whatever means necessary. We don’t want a bloody fight.”

“Although we’re bound to have one,” sighs Kieran. “Meeting adjourned. Let’s begin.”

Before Lauren can leave, Eurydice motions to her, and when the rest of the troupe is gone, including Kieran and the others, she holds up a set of what seem to be leather gauntlets. “You may find these useful in the coming days. Or day. When the war comes.”

“I--” She’s stunned. “Thank you, Eurydice.”

Her mentor waves it away. “Try them on, Persephone.”

The gauntlets slide on easily, with two straps tightening them around her forearms. Lauren stretches her arm out, flicking her wrist experimentally. What she doesn’t expect is a small blade to come shooting out, then back again with another flick.

“Useful?”

“More than,” she says sheepishly. “But thank you anyhow. I do mean it.”

____

Inside the main kitchen tent, Lauren tests out a set of clothes she’s kept long-dormant. An impending battle is good as any occasion for an outfit change, and her regular clothing won’t do. She’s just finished strapping on the harness - black leather stretching around her chest, above and below her breastbone, coming to a halter in the back - and belt, when Kieran himself comes into the tent, freezing in place.

“You keep showing up when I least expect you to,” she says, but it comes out in a small voice. He’s thrown on a long coat, dark as the night sky above, and in his own belt rests his katana. “Preparing too?”

“In a way,” he says, tilting his head. He’s close, enough for his eyes to visibly flit down to her outfit and back up again: a sleeveless black tunic, with elbow-length gloves, her gauntlets strapped on, as well as steel-toed boots. Fighting gear - gear she hasn’t used in an eternity. “Do you have to go back to the forge soon?”

“Now, actually.” But Lauren doesn’t move from where she stands as he steps closer, breath tickling her ear.

“Your halter is crooked,” he murmurs. “Allow me.”

She nods, slowly, turning around. Lauren attempts to focus on anything but the way his hands can be felt through the cloth of the leather strapped to her tunic, or the way he’s close enough to press his mouth against the slope of her neck, but fails, instead attempting to stare a hole in the tent wall. It doesn’t work as he pulls away, both of them breathing heavily. 

“Thanks.” It comes out strangled.

He can do nothing but answer in turn, walking out of the tent silently as if it pains him.

Lauren presses a palm to her face, counting to ten as she wills her cheeks to cool. When her heartbeat finally stops beating incessantly against her chest, she peeks through her fingers - and nearly chokes on air as she stumbles back against the stove countertop. Kym stands there, leaning against the same countertop with a coffee mug in her hand, carrying with her an expression that seems to be an equal-parts melange of amusement, smugness, and evil, _evil_ glee. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she remarks, smiling even wider as Lauren blinks in surprise. “Having a good time?”

“We’re close friends,” she sputters. “You get that, right?”

“Oh, totally. Mhm hmm.” She sets the mug down on the counter, and when she’s close enough to Lauren, tugs her forward by the collar. “I get _it.”_

“Look. He’s a special kind of friend, and we’re just comfortable with each other. Okay?”

“Yes, Lauren,” Kym trills, patting her cheek like she would a child. “I, too, look at my friend like I want to stick my tongue down his throat.”

Lauren turns a lovely beetroot color. “Will,” she points out, raising a brow.

“Now that—” she says, clapping her shoulder as she walks past her, “—is a case of where _he_ wants to stick _his_ tongue down _my_ throat but is too chicken to do so. Anyways. Make me your best woman at the wedding. If you actually do end up not being a coward and _get_ some, I’ll high-five you.”

**_“You wench!”_ **

_“You love me!”_ Kym hollers behind her as she leaves.

____

“Late night?” Eurydice calls out as Lauren walks up the slight slope to the troupe area, shivering with the wind around them. Her mentor is perched in front of a low-burning campfire, remnants of the rest of the circus troupe there - discarded sticks and imprints on logs. She settles for sitting across from her, gratefully accepting the warmth the fire offers. Eurydice passes her a bottle with something dark inside - wine, she realizes. 

“Good a time as any.”

For once, Lauren accepts, popping open the cork. The liquid is slightly bitter, but doesn’t heed it much as she passes the bottle back to her mentor. “I don’t really care at this point.”

Eurydice barks out a short laugh. “You and me both. Although you’ve certainly been distracted today.”

“How--”

“Have you forgotten? I can tell, you know. You’re not as sly about it as you think. Tale as old as time,” Eurydice says, chuckling as she takes another dainty sip of wine. “The girl who fell in love with death himself.”

“I’m not distracted because of _him.”_

“That’s not the only thing, yes, but really - the sooner you rip the bandaid off, the sooner you stop hurting.”

Lauren looks down. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She still doesn’t speak. Eurydice sighs as she sets down the bottle. “Now hear this much, dread queen - you have chosen your own power. Your own destiny, your own legacy. Don’t tell me you’re that selfless as to let him go, let him fade into the wintry woods.”

“There’s a war going on,” she insists, the protest futile even to her own ears. “And he doesn’t feel the same way about me. He can’t possibly. He can’t.”

“And if he does?”

Lauren bit her lip. 

_Don’t let him. Don’t let him love me. I can’t lose another._

“Still stupid as an ox when it comes to your own heart,” snorts Eurydice. But the ice recedes in her gaze. “Don’t you see the way he moves around you? Always you first. Always falling towards you. I see it, Lauren. How you are the star in a starless sea he has been navigating for too long. Make of that what you will.”

____

The fire is not the only fire brewing in Ardhalis tonight.

Mere meters away from a campfire burning low within the recesses of a park, the people long forgotten and long hidden in the shadows gather their torches, their weapons. The people thrown to the side, undermined by the crown made to protect them - begin to cry out, louder than they have before.

Mere meters away from the beginnings of something brewing are a power in numbers, spreading the word from door to door, whispering tales of a revolution that could become legend.

Mere meters away from the center of this city is a war on the precipice--

____

\--of beginning as Dylan Rosenthal orders his forces to invade Nightingale Park, for the men and women and others he commands to finally deal the blow to a system that has made them suffer for too long--

____

\--all begun by two, once three, as they lay in their chambers, slumbering, crowns glimmering gold in the light, soon to be cleaved in half.

____

The first gunshot makes Eurydice drop the bottle, the glass slamming into the ground and fracturing.

“Morpheus,” she whispers, recognizing the scream. Her face has gone pale. “Not again.”

_Orpheus._ “I’ll find the others.”

“I’ll rally the troupe. Do what you must, Lauren.” A land lands on her cheek. _“Go! They’re here!”_

The troupe has come alive, as dark figures start swarming into the field, out of the trees, illuminated by moonlight. Her feet slam into the pavement as she runs, runs faster than she ever has in her life, unsheathing her wrist blades as she knocks out one, two attackers. She can spot Kym from here - her sniper rifle is a giant in the distance.

One shot. “Where’s Kieran?!”

“I’m looking for him, I don’t know, we have to stay together--”

She finds him as a sword gleams silver, shining a light on blue that meets gold from what seems to be an eternity away. Lauren can only watch in horror as he is slammed into a tree.

By the time she’s there, his attacker is plummed to the ground by her blade and she’s at his side, hands shaking as they cup his face, his hair.

He fell once, didn’t he? At sixteen and eighteen. Now he has fallen again, at twenty-five and she at twenty-two, on the cusp of another year but she is falling after him and--

____

_Wherever you go, I go._

She’s tired. Extremely so, but she keeps going, her hands on his head, his chest, willing his heart to beat, his blood and bones and skin to sing for only her and her, a melody and harmony interwoven in one. He leaves, and so does she, but he has to come back, _they_ have to, because they are each other’s sanctity, bound to each other forever and always, and never leave each other’s side. Because in a once-tall house of liars and cheaters and killers and worse things, they were the one thing they knew to be true.

_My rock. My anchor._

Vibrant turquoise comes alive.

_Mine._

“Lauren,” he rasps, and thumbs away the wetness dotting at the corners of her eyes. It strikes her then, at last. That look. That same look he’s given her all these years. 

Lightning strike, adrenaline rush.

_So you do,_ she thinks with a fast-fading vengeance. _So you do love me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Phantom Scythe: you two are in love  
> Kym and Will: you two are in love  
> the entire 11th precinct: y'all love each other  
> the ACTUAL CIRCUS: HELLO???? ARE YOU DUMB?  
> *Lauren and Kieran's revelation happens*  
> Ardhalis City: F I N A L L Y
> 
> (For the record, 'philtatos' means 'most loved' in Greek. Three cheers.)
> 
> Also, the first chapter's last monologue words have come full circle. I wrote this with Taylor Swift's 'Love Story' blasting in my ears. It's not like I cried at all while doing it. *blows into tissue* i'm fine! I'm FINE.
> 
> Since I don't want to commit Writer's Seppuku, Scheherazade's final 'climax' will be split across three chapters: 34-36, with an individual word count of 4k-ish. All questions will be answered, you'll maybe get a kiss you've been pining after for months, and Team Eclipse will do some...things.


	34. eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two assassins and two officers at the end of the line. Who would’ve thought it would’ve been this way, them standing between obliteration and the rest of the world?

When she pulls him up, it is like falling into the embrace of the ocean - welcoming and familiar. Saltwater pooling around his veins, warming him as she grips his shoulders, gold eyes roaming his face. What he doesn’t expect her to do is draw him closer, close enough for their foreheads to touch, breath hot on his skin.

“You said you didn’t love me,” she says, the words rushing out rapid-fire. She flushes a bit at the implied question, but her gaze doesn’t stray.

He squeezes her hands, drawing them down to his own. “When you’re around someone who can detect lies for ten years,” Kieran says slowly, being nothing but honest with her, “you pick up a lot of tricks on how to conceal your own lies.”

“But--”

“It was in the heat of the moment. I didn’t expect it to work.” Kieran strokes his thumb over her palm. “I did too well, I suppose.”

In one swift movement, Lauren draws his hands towards her, kissing his callused knuckles. It’s a small gesture, and he can barely restrain himself from grabbing her here and now and kissing her senseless. But he can’t, not yet, as the sounds of gunfire ripping through the air unfortunately remind them of precisely _where_ they happen to be. He tugs her closer, watching with dark pleasure as she quivers in his arms, an arrow caught in an archer’s hold.

“You’re mine.”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “I know.”

Bronze curves through the air as she unsheathes her wrist blades in response to a call across the park. _“Persephone!”_

“My cue.” Lauren runs forward, turning back to look at him. “Meet me at the edge of the park. Tell the others!”

“With pleasure, _mon bien-aimee,”_ he shoots back, and this time, the name has never rung more true.

____

Philip Aevasther is in the middle of signing the Increased Security and Oversight Act when the one of the High Councilmen bursts into the room, glasses askew. 

“Your Majesty!” he crows, not even bothering to bow. His face is contorted into an expression of urgency. “I apologize for the interruption, but the Leader has made his first move against this city! We’ve received reports of minor explosions in the 10th and 11th precincts. One of the police buildings is already being held hostage.”

He bolts up from his seat, ink pen tumbling to the ground. “We need to alert Rhysmel’s old guard.”

“Those ingrates--” Lizbeth swears, dress sweeping the floor as she leaves her husband’s side, paying no heed to the shocked murmurs of the advisors around them. “You did not call in the royal guard sooner? What of the other precincts?!”

“Awaiting assistance, but there is also the matter of the front gates,” Berelli says, and as if on cue, the marble walls shake. One advisor in black looks out the large windows - outside the castle gates, a large crowd of rioters have brought down the hedges. Lizbeth hisses at the sight, snapping her fingers for the guard outside the meeting room to barricade the doors.

“Lizbeth, we’ve got to act fast,” says Philip, frantically moving to get his private cabinet out of the room. “They’re going to reach Arthur first--”

“Go and order our men,” she shouts at him, waving a hand. “I’ll tend to our son!”

She barely gets halfway down the hall when the cries of a young boy reach her. Lizbeth speeds up, rushing down an ornate set of stairs before the shouts grow louder. A small child of about ten comes tumbling into her arms when she slams open the prince’s room, blue eyes teary.

“Are they here?”

“You needn’t worry about such things, Arthur.” She strokes his hair quickly, hoisting him into her arms. “Let’s go, now.”

Before she can exit, the door is slammed open by a set of guards - no, not guards. Two men in black, with identical weapons, shoving Philip back. They part to let a young man of about twenty-two, or perhaps older, enter between them, with shockingly white hair.

“None of you will be harmed,” Dylan Rosenthal drones. “Your Majesties. I’m not here to assassinate any of you.”

“You,” Philip whispers, fury palpable in his voice. “You’re--”

“One of Ardhalis’s poor children, yes,” he croons. “You’re not going anywhere, however. Both of you I’ll save for last. I have business that lies...elsewhere, first.”

____

“Can you get through the blockade?”

“Not here!” Will shouts back. “We’ve got to - _Kym, what are you doing?”_

In one smooth motion, Kym levies the Lee-Enfield rifle over her shoulders and aims. In seconds, the wooden barrier between Amity and Baker Street is obliterated, in thanks partially to the gas pipe she’d hit. Lauren and Kieran rush through it, katana and blades pointed outwards in a circle. The streets are now abandoned, no doubt due to the evacuation announcement ordered ten minutes ago.

But the High Council is in danger - and so are the royals. There’d been an urgency in Berelli’s voice when he’d ordered all citizens to stay inside. The weapons on her back had been taken in an urgent rush from Herakles’ forge - and now she doesn’t have any choice but to wait for the metal to cool. 

“What about the rest at the 11th?” she demands, once the coast has been declared clear. “The radios didn’t say anything about them being held hostage.”

“Lukas gave the warning,” Will says, wiping his brow. “I didn’t expect the Leader to make a move this soon.”

“So the patrol unit’s been dispatched,” Kym concludes. “Your move, Lieutenant.”

He fiddles with the collar on his uniform. Lauren glances at him with concern - he looks stressed, anxious in a way she’s never seen him look before except in rare moments of slippage within the office. Truth be told, he looks like a young version of his father - blonde hair slicked back, with the military uniform he wears specifically designed to mark him as a commander in battle. Gold buttons, medallions on his chest, the cufflinks on his sleeves emblazoned with a hawk insignia.

“Change of plans. The 11th needs me and Kym,” he says eventually. “You and Kieran need to handle the castle. The troupe’s already halfway underground. If everything goes--” He breaks off, and they all fall silent.

Two assassins and two officers at the end of the line. Who would’ve thought it would’ve been this way, them standing between obliteration and the rest of the world?

She moves first, clasping his shoulder.

“I trust you,” she says softly. “We’re not Eclipse for nothing.”

A small smile passes over Kym’s features. “Now you’re getting it.”

“Very well, then.” Kieran looks steadily at them. “May we meet again.”

____

The Viper’s old forces chase Belladonna down.

She knows where she has to go. It would help, too, if people didn’t keep getting in her way. The snake hilt shines up at her as she whirls and dodges a flurry of attackers, each one to touch her knife going down in rivulets of crimson. Somewhere in the distance, she sees the scarred man that has been her partner for so long.

Some partner.

“Good for nothing,” she hisses underneath her breath, running his way.

Halfway across the city, Lauren Sinclair is still unaware of her last ghost’s downfall at the hands of a serpent.

Halfway across the docks, Dunya Almari takes control of her own destiny, watching as the men in front of her bow at her feet, the balisong in her hands levitating in the air.

“Today, we end the Phantom Scythe’s reign once and for all,” she orders, voice loud as a bell. “Do I have your loyalty?”

The man in front of her raises his own blade.

“Our forces are yours, Huntress.”

____

  
  


They hadn’t promised to come back to each other directly. But for some reason, their unspoken vow won’t stop ringing in her ears as she stations herself on top of the belltower at the edge of the 11th precinct, the view from up here a clear skyline. A clear shot, or at least that’s what she expects as she sees Phantom Scythe recruits planted near the precinct office. 

_“You there?”_

She taps the mic in her ears. “Yeah. I’m here. You?”

_“In position.”_ She can’t see him, but knows he’s only a couple meters away. 

“What, worried about me?”

_“Maybe.”_

Kym shakes her head. “I’m perfectly capable of taking our first steps, lieutenant.” She loads another cartridge of bullets she’d stored in her black coat, the skintight bodysuit she wears useful for hiding bullet stocks. “We’re going to make it out here alive.”

_“I hope so.”_ The mic almost goes static before he speaks again. _“And before I forget - check your inside pocket.”_

She blinks, confused, but obeys. What greets her is the feel of metal and leather. A wristwatch has been hidden inside her coat - a new one, with gold rimmed around the edges, brown leather fresh-smelling. This one works. An engraving is on the sides. 

_Memento._

_“I had a brother,”_ he continues, the admission a bit strangled. _“So I know--”_ Will breaks off. _“I hope you like it.”_

“I do,” she says earnestly, clipping it on. It fits perfectly. “And for the record, I knew you liked me.”

He goes silent. Kym laughs softly as she readies the rifle gun.

____

The rioters have already taken the lower parts of the castle - raiding easy stock. Here, she and Kieran blend in seamlessly, since no one pays them any heed. There’s something oddly fascinating about watching a riot occur before your very own eyes, watching multitudes of people walk off with jewels and ornate furniture, setting various items ablaze, breaking porcelain and glass. Frankly, she understands it all. It’s been a long time coming.

Some of the royal guard come crashing down the grand staircase, but are already felled by several civilians pelting items at them. One makes it through - wearing an only slightly altered police uniform - and proceeds to be knocked out by the back of Kieran’s katana. He unsheathes it fully, the two of them making their way up the stairs. 

“He could’ve locked the royals in any room,” she says, eyes flitting everywhere. “If they were dead by now, we’d have an even worse situation.”

Kieran’s mouth goes into a thin line. “It’s most likely one of their private chambers of a sort. The upper levels.”

“We can’t get there in time.”

He moves to speak - and stops. “I don’t think we have to.”

“What--”

That’s when she sees it. A foxglove flower on the top step of the staircase, a summons for both of them.

_Dylan, where are you?_

_Come and find me!_

“Well,” she breathes. “Looks like we’re headed home.”

____

What’s left of the once-brilliant Golden Viper comes crashing through the back gates of the abandoned building, coming face to face with an empty hall. Light pours through the shattered windows, casting dim sunlight on the carpeted floors. If she were to close her eyes hard enough and block out all noise, she’d hear the sound of children laughing. If she started walking, she’d hear the sound of a whip slithering on the floor. 

_Nightshade._ The flower in her hands had been salvation back then. _Poisonous among many._ There had been other poisons, of course - datura, foxglove; the complex’s namesake - but none had been hers like the belladonna had. _Beautiful lady._

_What seems to be so perfect on the outside will rot everything it touches._

She throws open the auditorium doors.

“You called me here,” she bites out sharply. “Well, then? Speak, Rosenthal.”

____

She’s walked this path a hundred times and a hundred more. So has Kieran. The silence they share is one of understanding as they gently push aside tree branches and bramble bushes, stepping carefully over plant undergrowth as they make their way onto a lined path. It’s worn now, slightly marked and weathered with time, but they stride in tandem as the path grows larger, and wider, until they’re at once was a grand-standing arch marking a cathedral of sorts. 

A broken foxglove emblem can still be seen on the marble. 

Of course he would call them back to where it all started.

Lauren braces her hand against the marble, the fingerless gloves she wears straining as her fingertips dig into the cracks in the arch. The last time she was here, it had been raining, and--

_I thought I loved and that made me weak._

He speaks before she can, standing next to her as he looks out into the distance. There’s a certain sheen in his eyes, almost clouding lovely turquoise over. “I never thought we’d be back here again.”

“Neither did I.” She looks down. “So many memories.”

“Some of them bad. Most, really.” Kieran glances over his shoulder, nudging her hand with his index. 

“But you made it worthwhile. You know that, right?” Lauren watches as he blinks in shock, mouth slightly parted as she trails the sleeve of his black coat. “If there was one thing I always had...it was you.”

He moves to kiss the top of her forehead. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it comes out in a breath of laughter. “I don’t know how you’ve stuck with me all this while, but really, love. Just a little while longer.”

“Forever,” she promises, squeezing his hand. Both of them look towards the entrance, which has been boarded up haphazardly, wooden beams still hanging loosely around the ornate doors. “Ready?”

He nods. 

“Ready.”

And they move in sync.

The doors come crashing open as both of them kick it down, Kieran raising a small torch in his hand. The hallway is dark, the lights broken. Watercolor and oil portraits discarded. It would be a seemingly normal cathedral entryway - but Lauren knows better; they stride down the hallway to reach a set of metal doors, and when they too are thrown open, a foyer rests, with a labyrinth of halls to navigate elsewhere. 

“You think he’d be on the upper floors?”

“Doubtful.” Kieran looks grim. “Let’s check the atrium first.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers, and hunches over slightly as she hugs her arms to her chest. “Seeing him again, having to--” Lauren breaks off. “This has to end. One way or another. And death has always been my companion. But perhaps it’s left me, now.”

“If you do it,” he says slowly, after a while, “I’ll do it with you. He’s both our pasts.”

“Right.” She bites her lip. “Let’s go.”

____

He knows they’re approaching soon.

He can feel it.

Maybe this is how it was meant to be, at the end of things: him and a viper by his side, against a child of flowers and a child of crimson. 

The past sees and hears, and in that moment, intertwines their present and future together.

_Come and find me._

____

She bursts through the wreckage of the auditorium like fire, and that’s when Dylan calls for his men. 

They attack her first, five surrounding one. Lauren unsheathes both of her wrist blades, dodging an attack her way as the rest surround Kieran. It’s not even fighting anymore - just muscle memory, as she waits for her attackers to step back, extending her blade and cutting a way through the pews. This time, crimson doesn’t stain the tips of her daggers, but the weight of injury still remains on her. 

_“Dylan!”_

A shriek. He steps out of the shadows.

“So you came,” he says evenly. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.”

“Order your forces to stand down,” she yells. “Or you know what will happen.”

“Do I?”

“The 11th precinct’s already taken care of the castle and the surrounding hostage precincts. Sooner or later the royal guard is going to interfere with the rioters too. You _must know that.”_

“So what, then?” He cocks his head. “You’ll strike me down?”

She hesitates.

And that’s her mistake.

“Lauren,” comes the strangled gasp from behind her, and she whirls around in horror to see Belladonna with her knife to Kieran's throat, grinning madly. “Don’t--”

_“Let him go!”_

“I don’t think I will,” she purrs. The cracks in Belladonna’s facade are now visible: the woman now lets her rage carry her, drown her under the waves, the circles under her eyes almost akin to dark eyeliner. “I’ve never liked him much, see. Or you.”

“The thing is, this situation is quite simple,” intones Dylan, folding his hands neatly together. “You want peace. Belladonna craves power. I can give each of you what you want. There doesn’t have to be a matter of war.”

_In this story, there are no saviors._

_We’re fighting against a side that’s just as bad as we are, what’s the difference--_

_The true enemy lives in a castle, and you would do well to remember so--_

“You chose war,” she says, reaching for the weapons on her back. The metal is cool to the touch. “Let him go. Let him go _now,”_ and she quivers with fury, “and I’ll give you what you want. Surrender.”

_“Lauren--”_

She holds two fingers up behind her back.

_Trust me._

Dylan nods Belladonna’s way, and Kieran collapses to the ground, barely managing to hold himself up through the pain. She looks scornful, the poison on her blade still unused. Swiftly, she pulls out the newly forged weapons in her sheath, glittering bronze. One shorter than the other, both tipped with gold, solid in weight. Lauren clutches the twin hilts in her hands, swords crossed behind her body. She is bruised and exhausted, and yet, stands with the pride of all the world on her shoulders.

“But I will not surrender without a fight,” she declares. “It’s always been down to this. You and me.”

_Cortain,_ sings the weapon in her left. _Callandor,_ answers the one on her right.

_I am unbreakable. I am inevitable._

Ten years ago, it was a girl who fell into the fire. 

It is now a warrior who rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cortain, which has been alternatively spelled as Cortana/Curtana, is a legendary shortsword in the legend of Oger the Dane. It has appeared in numerous French mythologies such as Aspremont and Renaut de Montauban, and is referred to as 'The Sword of Mercy'; it actually belongs to the British Crown Jewels in modern day.
> 
> Callandor is a fictional sword, and in Robert Jordan's _Wheel of Time_ series, is actually a powerful sa'angreal, a device which can channel power.
> 
> Obviously, these are not magical items in the Scheherazade canon, but I find it very fitting that Lauren no longer carries a sword of misguided 'justice'.
> 
> She has instead reforged her past weapon and now carries the swords of mercy and power.


	35. battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen.” He turns Lauren around gently, and before she can object, presses his katana into her hands. “You get this back to me. You make it out alive. Alright?”
> 
> “Don’t be stupid,” she hisses, drawing closer to him. Her brows furrow as she offers up her dual shortswords. Perhaps this is their distorted way of saying good luck - good luck, and don’t die. He accepts the weapons, lightweight and gleaming in his hands. “You’re coming with me. End of the line, right?”

The second the Leader of the Phantom Scythe realizes his mistake, the remaining guard close around them. Lauren barely sees Belladonna fleeing sideways out of the corner of her eye - the viper, however, if she knows anything, does not back down from a fight. Kieran readies his katana as they advance.

“The underground tunnels,” she says frantically. “They’re most likely going to start detonating the remaining explosives.”

“Great.” Kieran cocks his head sardonically. “And here I thought it couldn’t get any better.”

Callandor and Cortain are lightweight in her palms. Ten remaining. Identical matching lances. They meet each other’s eye silently, nodding. Ten, twenty, sixty - whatever the odds are, they’ve been trained to take down a hundred people. It’s no different now; they step into position, back to back, swords as the ready like they’ve always done. Kieran shifts against her - she knows what he’s thinking.

A second later, she’s vaulted over him, slamming her sword into the edge of another blade. It’s a dance, almost - they’ve switched positions, catching their attackers off guard, parrying first. Opposite movements, but in sync. Dual-wielding grants her more leverage, but she has to keep in close quarters, both shortswords twirling bronze arcs in the air as she knocks out one, slams her blade into two, then three, five.

Kieran keeps his own attackers at bay, calculating every move when she moves on instinct. She barely dodges the head of a sharp lance as one more attacker comes her way, eyes glinting like flint in the dim light as the weapon in his hands splits into two.

She levies Callandor in her hand, letting out a sharp yell as she runs forward. It peels through the fabric of his clothing like paper, gold tip stained slightly as she knocks him down.

_“Lauren!”_

A sliver star flies her way. Without much preamble, she catches his katana in her left, slamming it into the attacker behind her, who falls to the ground. Cortain is now in his hands, the metal grazing the bare floor as he picks it up from the ground. The light from the broken glass windows above are coming in strong, bringing with it the scent of flower petals. Spring has come, at last, the beginnings of it, as both of them look at each other breathlessly, still running on an adrenaline high.

“The underground,” he manages at last. “We could still find them in time.”

“Belladonna first.” Lauren takes back her other shortsword, handing him his. “I don’t trust in her following Dylan. She must have her own plan.”

“Nothing good can come of that.” He motions with his head. “Let’s go.”

_And kill them,_ is the unspoken word between the two, but she nods, running alongside him anyways down the adjacent corridor into the darkness.

____

_“Checking in.”_

“Going according to plan,” Kym says, reloading the rifle. “Target’s two meters ahead. They still suspect I’m in the belltower.”

_“Good. Keep an eye out for the streets.”_ She can hear the sound of a gun cocking through Will’s earpiece. _“Some of the patrol unit are near here. If we can end the blockade and free the 11th, some officers can radio the other units.”_

“Already on the same page as you, chief.” She squints through the barrel of the rifle, hand on the trigger. “You’re five blocks away. Do you see them?”

_“I see it.”_ Through the oculus of the barrel, the two Phantom Scythe members are on either side of the street, guarding several mansions. She knows that inside, the wealthy have already boarded up, fearing for their lives. Some part of her knows it’s hypocritical, this situation and all - defending the powerful and leaving the defenseless behind - but one way or another, they have to end this.

“Ready, aim…”

She clicks the trigger, and a clear shot rings throughout the air. More panicked yells as one target falls to the ground, clutching at his knee.

An answering bang grows nearer, and Kym ducks behind an alleyway wall as a bullet aims her way. They’ve found her. _“Will?”_

_“I know.”_ His voice grows frantic. _“I’ve got my eye on three snipers on several roofs. I’m headed your way.”_

She doesn’t get the chance to yell at him to stay put before the earpiece she wears goes silent.

____

It’s far too quiet.

The descent down into the underground tunnels is eerily silent, save for the sounds of dripping water. In the firelight streaming from the torches lining the walls, Lauren’s hair transforms into a living flame, twin swords in her hands. He can see the doubt growing deeper on her features every second they run down the darkness - it’s doubt he knows keenly. What else had gone into a decade’s worth of purple hyacinths, left in nothing but rivers of blood? Poisonous blooms left on corpses, eventually wilting with time and the wind.

They both don’t hesitate now, but this is different. This is facing a past both of them share, that they can never be rid of - not truly, at least.

At a crossroads, the tunnels eventually open up into a wide-open space, a circular brick dome with multitudes of passages leading either way. Before she can open her mouth to speak, he clamps a hand over her mouth, listening for noise. A thundering bang echoes throughout the third tunnel, and he grabs her wrist, pulling her down deeper with him.

“They kept so many secrets from us,” she murmurs bitterly, hilt tight in her hands. “How did Belladonna learn to navigate these?”

He looks over at her. “Same way you learned to fight. Ambition.”

The light at the end of the third tunnel is almost blinding after near-total darkness, and here, the electric lamps glow brighter than any fire. Belladonna stands ahead of them, hands clasped over a string of wires. Without preamble, Kieran flings a shuriken her way, clamping her hand to the metal tank behind her. If he’d been a second late, she would’ve set off explosive gas.

“Where is he,” he demands through gritted teeth.

“You didn’t even want to see me?” she says, an edge to the teasing lilt in her voice. It’s hard, and broken, nothing like the easy lilt that was there before. “My, my. I’m disappointed.”

Can it really end no other way?

They are all damaged, the three of them, once four.

“Let it alone, Bella.” Lauren raises her swords. “I don’t want to do this to you.”

“You never had a problem betraying everyone you knew before, Lauren,” spits back the viper. “And neither did dearest Kieran over here. You won’t spare a second’s hesitation to kill me.” She grins widely, the lipstick stain on her cheek smearing like blood. “Go ahead, then. Do it. It was easy before, wasn’t it?”

“Even if I can’t kill,” she growls, “I can still make you hurt.”

Belladonna sighs, and Kieran raises his sword to the knife that comes hurling their way, which extends into a longer blade. The ripped sleeve from where she’d torn herself out of the shuriken’s hold waves freely.

Lauren’s blades meet Belladonna’s throat at the same time Kieran’s does.

He can do nothing else but mourn. Mourn for the four children, now three, gone down the same dark path. One forced, one who went willingly, and one who took all she got. Gold meets silver meets bronze. A whole, complete, but unmatched - two against one.

“So be it,” hisses the viper, undone, charging forward with whatever venom left she has in her veins.

____

“Don’t do this to me,” Kym curses to her earpiece, tapping it frantically, “come on, come _on--”_

Another bang. Her heart thunders in her chest. She still can’t see Will from here, not from where she’s hiding. The crates in the alleyway aren’t high enough for her to climb and seek out a different viewpoint out on a roof - curse her height - and the snipers are still at large. How many officers have they taken out by now? How many have they killed?

If her friend is one of them--

Another bang.

_“Come on--”_

There’s a third gunshot, but this time, there’s a thud on the roof above her. An officer pokes their head out, navy and gold colors salvation in the midst of it all. “She’s here!”

Kym only registers the sound of her rifle loading as she points the weapon directly at the entrance of the alleyway, hardly daring to believe it - but he comes through it all, hair rumpled, slightly injured - but alive, and definitely not dead.

“We’ve taken out the last of--” He’s cut off by her hand, as she buries her head in his chest.

“You do that to me again and I shoot you,” she mutters, blinking away tears.

____

Philip has never knelt in his entire life. Of course, that all changes now.

“What does the Leader want with us?” he demands to the Phantom Scythe members in front of him, struggling in his binds. “If you truly slaughter the monarchy, the council will have your heads!”

“That’s cute,” snorts one woman, nudging a chair aside. She casts eyes on the prince’s room - baby blue walls, ornate furniture, leftovers of the nursery that was once here still standing. Lace draperies around the bed, a child’s toy twinkling starlight in the corner. “You still think we’re at fault.”

“At fault?” he demands, glancing over at Lizbeth. The fury is barely contained in her eyes as she carries Arthur in his arms, who has been silent all this while, but clings to her dress with fear. “You’ve terrorized this city for ages. And you still think we, your rulers, are to blame?”

“And who started it all?” she retorts, slamming her hands down on mahogany wood. She drags the chair forward, planting herself on it. “Really. I never knew royalty could be this stupid for all you get in life. But I suppose there are some trade-offs.” She leans forward, eyes piercing his own. “Your _father_ started small. Wasn’t much of a noble man. Didn’t care about the larger problem, you see. Increased taxes on the lower classes. Didn’t allow funding for our schools and our buildings. Then slowly, slowly, just didn’t pay any attention to us at all. And now--” she says, gesturing, “you’re the worst of them all. You know why? It’s not because you’re like her,” a sneer directed Lizbeth’s way, “who _hates us -_ you just don’t _care._ And that’s the worst part.”

“We have given you everything the treasury allows,” the High Queen retorts. “And you dare come in here as criminals demanding more?”

“More?” A shrill laugh pierces the air. The rest of the Phantom Scythe members join in, if only momentarily.

“Oh, my queen. We never had _more_ to begin with.” She plays with a small necklace in her hand, studded with diamonds. “We always had to fight for what we had. And even then - we were shoved aside.”

Oddly, her gaze turns soft as soon as her eyes land on Arthur.

“Your son deserves better parents,” she murmurs. “Shame, really.”

____

“You _said,”_ Belladonna screams, attacking Kieran with a relentless flurry of attacks, “that you were their worst. They _made_ you their worst. And now here you are, fighting alongside a traitor you love?!”

She is too far gone now. Lauren goes on defense as best as she can, but Belladonna is faster than any of them combined, going after him first, more ruthless than she is. If Lauren scarred herself on purpose, Belladonna opened old wounds and let the salt pour in day by day. If Lauren once wielded revenge and treated it like a savior, Belladonna claws at power like a lifeline and fears herself drowning without it. The girl has always been a wildcard, but now, looking like this, broken and bitter and grieving--

\--it’s nothing but a tragedy.

“They made us all that way,” he insists, dodging her thrust, blocking it with his katana. But he stays there, pushing back against her fury. “You know that as well as I do. You _know_ that.”

And for once, her tawny eyes are filled not with the flames of rage, but the tears of anger.

_“How dare you,”_ she shrieks, a hoarse cry ripped from her throat. _“How dare you_ get everything I never had! _Everything!_ You were their monster, and now you get everything you’ve ever wanted. _Why do you steal everything that is mine while I am left to scavenge in the dust?!”_

“You chose, Bella,” he forces out. “You chose this. To impose pain and suffering on others. Why - after everything--” He is pleading now, something he has never done before with her. “--why make them all like _you?”_

“You cannot _save me,_ Kieran White,” she cackles, laughing mirthlessly, madness in every curve of her stained smile. “They all should suffer. This world has been nothing but my curse since I was born. And you will not take victory away from _me.”_

Before her blade can strike his, it rams into Lauren’s own.

“Your fight is with me, Viper,” she breathes, and the battle begins anew.

“Oh?” Her smile is all bared teeth, a predator’s. “You said you could hurt me. Do it then, _Scarlet.”_

____

“Detonation subdued,” Morpheus announces, and Hecate feels the troupe exhale as one in relief. Her gaze is drawn to the approaching figure in the shadows.

“Someone’s coming.”

In the catacombs, they shield each other, the archways and tunnels of brickwork laid out before them. Ardhalis’s underground is dotted with crystalline formations, casting dim light on the shadowy forms of explosives. Eurydice inhales sharply as the figure grows nearer.

“It’s been a while,” the violet-eyed woman says. “I apologize for being gone so long.”

____

Help has finally arrived for the 11th precinct, and under Will’s command, the rest of the patrol unit splits up to undertake a siege. Kym reloads the second of the cartridges she’s brought along, bullets in her palm as they crouch behind the wall separating them and the boundary between the 10th precinct. The rest of the Scythe’s forces have begun to spread over the city, and it worries her.

“You should’ve gotten help instead of coming back,” she says, now that he’s here, now that she can afford to be sensible about the situation. She ducks her head as he glances over at her. Looking at him is too much. “I thought you were going to abandon—”

“I couldn’t.”

“You didn't leave—”

“I _couldn’t.”_

“Why?” Kym’s finger lands on the trigger, but it doesn’t pull. “You could’ve had someone else retrieve me. Why you?”

Before he can reply to her demand, another explosion rocks the streets. They both jump up in alarm at the cue, Will’s hands flying to his own guns.

“Breaking down their defenses is going to take a miracle,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. She stares at him in the grainy sunlight, blonde curls slicked back with wisps of cornsilk tousled over his forehead, blue eyes twin skies in the light.

And that’s when she makes the decision to lean forward and kiss him on the mouth. It’s a brief peck, nothing temperamental, but when he falls into it, they sing the same song, a melody rushing through her veins and blood. It feels like coming home. It feels like a thousand things at once.

“What--” When she breaks away, he touches his bruised lips. “What was that for?”

“Your motivation,” she quips, loading her sniper gun. “Come back to me alive, William Hawkes. And then maybe you’ll get another.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond as she runs off, belting out orders at the officers behind her.

____

They become children again, blow for blow.

It’s literal, really. When the knife spirals out of Belladonna’s hand, both Lauren and Kieran run towards her, pinning her down. She kicks out, heels harsh blows against her ribs, but Kieran manages to get her hands behind her back. Without preamble, she holds Cortain to her throat, watching as the Golden Viper sneers up at her.

“Go on.” Her smile fades into a scowl. There is no more pleasure from pain in her eyes. “Do it.”

Her hand is steady. “Tell us where he is.”

“He’s already long gone. You won’t be able to catch him.”

“Even if I do kill you, you won’t give me the answers, will you?”

Belladonna sighs. “So now you get it.”

Lauren falls silent. She lets Cortain drop to her side, and that’s when Belladonna’s breathing grows ragged and harsh, coming out in harsh pants. Without her makeup, without her earrings - she looks like her. Just a girl, torn asunder by pain.

“Hesitating now, aren’t you?” It comes out in a strangled sob, and she doesn’t bother to quell the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Always.”

She squeezes the sword hilt tighter. “Run.”

Belladonna looks up at her. “What?!”

_“Run.”_ Lauren glares down at her coldly. “I’m not going to give you a second chance.”

“You--” She laughs harshly. “You couldn’t.”

“Oh, I could,” Lauren retorts. “I very well could. You’d be surprised as to who I know. And if you don’t run, and try and harm this city again, I will make sure that you get dragged down with me. I will block your every attempt at power and leave you with nothing.” Her golden eyes are like a dragon’s in the darkness. Belladonna is not someone quelled by promises or sweet pleasantries. So she knows the girl can very well read between the lines: _do not let me drag you down. I know why you want power and how it makes you feel in control and unafraid. I know what it is like to be afraid. I know what you have gone through and I do not fear it._

_You’re just as messed up as I am._

_But I’m giving you a choice: something life never gave you._

“Run.”

She doesn’t stop to see if Belladonna listens or not as she motions to Kieran, both of them streaking down the rest of the tunnel, into the catacombs where their final enemy lies.

____

  
  


“We’ve got orders from Rosenthal,” one of the Scythe members says, listening to the device in his ear. “Kill both the queen and the king. He’s about to be discovered.”

“Someone chased him down to the catacombs?”

“Apparently, even with an assassin at his side.”

“Interesting.” The group turns to Philip and Lizbeth. Arthur hasn’t cried yet, but he looks to be on the verge of tears, now clutching both parents’ hands. The king can tell they’re debating silently among themselves whether to get it over with quickly - or to make both royals suffer a slow demise.

“You do this and there will be nothing but chaos,” Lizbeth says quietly.

“I know.” A gun is pointed directly at her head, and finally, Arthur starts sobbing.

It’s what causes the woman from before to click the safety on the trigger.

“But your son really does deserve better.”

Philip looks up at that.

_You kill them, and they kill us,_ Dakan had once said. _The violence will never cease._

She nods to the rest of the group. “Take them into custody. They’ll face trial at the High Council headquarters. The prince _stays with us.”_

____

The pink haired girl stares at the belladonna flowers, at her namesake.

They still grow here, wild and free as anything. No one’s tended to the garden since the invasion, and now, unobstructed, the plants grow over monuments of old, covering the platforms with ivy, grass growing over the stone paths. The dagger she’s carried with her all her life stares up at her, fangs open.

_Run._

The Scarlet--

No.

Lauren.

Lauren had told her to run.

And Kieran had let her. The man who she’d always despised most had let her go.

“You’re back.”

She turns around to see the Huntress herself there, now armed with a multitude of daggers strapped to her waist. The hood sliding over her long black hair does nothing to conceal a set of striking brown eyes boring back into hers. Another traitor. Someone she betrayed.

“Hello, traitor.”

“Never change, Bella,” Dunya says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to let Rosenthal destroy everything. My recruits have already gone in.”

“Then why are you here?” she spits out. “Go and play the hero. Like you always wanted to be.”

“Don’t aim low,” she murmurs. “You were always better than that. And you know none of us are heroes.”

“Then _why--”_

“Because I saw you leave,” she says. “Lauren’s in there, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” No use in hiding the truth now. “Like the fool she is.”

Dunya sighs, hands on her hips. “You don’t get it? I saw you _leave.”_ She falls silent. “You never leave. You never back down. You hate losing. And yet you’re here.”

Both of them stare at each other evenly. Slowly, Dunya moves forward. It’s only after Belladonna looks down that she realizes the girl is holding out her hand, palm outstretched.

“I’d like to make you an offer,” she says.

____

“I see him,” she says, and it’s barely a whisper. Kieran recognizes the building fear in her voice. Behind the dark tunnel, the catacomb opens up into a large, open-mouthed area, lit up by crystals. He stands in the middle of it all - and from this distance, wields a spear. Almost as if he expects them to find him.

As if he knows they will find him again.

“Listen.” He turns Lauren around gently, and before she can object, presses his katana into her hands. “You get this back to me. You make it out alive. Alright?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she hisses, drawing closer to him. Her brows furrow as she offers up her dual shortswords. Perhaps this is their distorted way of saying good luck - good luck, and don’t die. He accepts the weapons, lightweight and gleaming in his hands. “You’re coming with me. End of the line, right?”

“End of the world, really.”

“Not yet.” Stubborn as always, pressing a hand to the back of his hair. “Not yet.”

One last shared breath passes between them before they part, and enter the cavern. Dylan turns around on cue, and that’s when Lauren moves - not to attack, but to drop her weapon at her side. Before Kieran can demand what the hell she’s doing, she speaks.

“I cannot fight you.” She swallows harshly. “There is too much anger and guilt in me.”

“Good,” Dylan says, not a hint of emotion in his voice.

Before any of them can say another word, the bomb behind them goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last, after 35 - THIRTY-FIVE - chapters, Kywi has done the thing. Three cheers - well more like thirty. "Finally, they kissed!" I say, as I write this entire fic, which is the product of my own mind.
> 
> Props to Sofiesverden, who asked way, way back in Chapter 5 if Lauren and Kieran could train in each other's weapons/use each other's weapons. You get your answer now! It's only been *looks down* 30 chapters coming.
> 
> Writing Ardhalis's whole Grey v. Grey morality plotline, aka the Phantom Scythe v. the monarchy, turned out to be the biggest hurdle I had to cross this chapter, and I hope I did treat it with enough nuance. If you take anything away from the political themes of this fic, I hope it's something along the lines of intent can be correct - but violence and war often warp it into something far more twisted, and that an ideal taken to an extreme can often hurt more than it can help.
> 
> Additionally - Belladonna. I'm going to speak more on the treatment of fictional villains next chapter (no spoilers, but things do happen to a certain someone), but she is an extreme worse-case scenario product of violence. Particularly interesting to deal with, really, because she's female, and well...female villains have never had the long end of the stick, so to speak. And what she has done is _horrifying_ , but I don't see the end of her character arc to be a redemption through death. That's all I'll say for now.


	36. zenith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All this time, she has done nothing but fall.
> 
> _You have always fallen. You must learn to get back up._
> 
> _Rise._

In that moment, Kieran understands what it is like to face death.

He’s always had nothing worth living for until the Foxglove gifted him with everything and yet nothing. But now - what flashes before his eyes is every kill he’s ever made. Hansbury Street. Amity. McTrevor. Three children in a car. Their convicts. On and on and on. It had been so, _so_ hard the first time, and every time after, to not cry after rivers of blood stained his hands. But now, he hasn’t killed in ages. There is a different group of people waiting for him at the finish line.

Killing was the hardest decision he’d had to make.

Running in front of Lauren and taking the hit for her is the easiest.

It’s so, so impossibly _easy._

When the rubble clears, one arm extended on the ground, he can spot someone running his way. She skids on the ground, crouching over him, cradling his head in her lap. He wants to tell her not to cry, but words fail him, and instead, Kieran sweeps aside the messy auburn locks framing Lauren’s face, cold tears tumbling down her cheeks onto his skin. Something is stinging his heart, like a living fire licking at his veins - when he strains his head, he can spot the edges of a burn scar traveling up his upper chest. The blast hadn’t been bad enough to kill either of them - Dylan had aimed precisely to harm, not to permanently injure.

His name in her mouth rings clear like a bell. 

“Kieran,” Lauren cries out, and his hand touches her cheek softly. It’s all she manages before she falls onto her side, struggling through the pain. He can’t do anything except watch as she struggles to lift herself up, and fail. Somewhere in the distance, the biggest explosive strapped to a machine of sorts begins to beep. 

“Don’t--” Even though they’re both badly injured, she still crawls his way, body atop his, protecting him like a cocoon. “Don’t you dare leave me. You understand? You _understand?”_

“You’re,” he starts, mouth dry, “you’re going to be okay.”

“No. _No!”_ she screams, tugging at his collar. “I thought you knew this already! I am staying _with_ you. You aren’t allowed to leave me.” His hair spills around his shoulders; he realizes this with the vague impression of ebony locks pressing against his jawline, free at last. “You don’t get it yet, do you? _I love you!”_

He is running on air, flying, falling.

“Stupid,” she murmurs against his forehead. “Stupid.”

He manages to lift a hand up to stroke the low of her back. “I--”

Dylan emerges from the wreckage, some indescribable emotion in his eyes as he looks at both of them. Lauren turns around to see him there, golden eyes hardening as she lets go of his collar. She lets out a small scream of agony as she faces him, toppling to the ground. 

The pipes have started leaking, cold liquid spilling at their feet, over the bricks.

  
  


____

  
  


_Rise._

He’d taken the blast for her.

Lauren slams a fist into the ground. She fails to bring up her weight, and instead topples onto her side, water splashing around her. The engines grind harder; Dylan is somewhere in the distance, a ghost at the edge of her vision. 

He has always been her ghost.

_Rise._ The memories pass, far and few in between. Her mother lifting her up off the ground. Her father stretching his hand out. Kieran hovering his fingers over her pulse.

All this time, she has done nothing but fall.

_You have always fallen. You must learn to get back up._

_Rise._

Her vision flares as she claws at the ground, nearly tearing at the marble as she slowly begins to shift her weight onto her lower body. She hunches over, crouching there, Kieran’s katana at her side. Auburn tumbles over her forehead - it is no longer neat. Rumpled and messy and rough around the edges, just like her.

_Rise._

Dylan’s eyes widen as she starts to stand, despite it all, clutching at the graze in her side. She grips Kieran’s sword in her hands.

**_Rise._ **

“I found you,” she breathes, pointing the weapon directly at him. 

And charges forward at the same time he does, their weapons clashing.

____

“Don’t aim yet,” Will says, reloading his gun. “Not until you see them within the two-meter range.” Kym and him are on either side of the temporary barricade the 11th precinct police have formed, the officers in the back behind the automobiles forming a defensive line, radioing the other precincts. 

There are three other snipers at Kym’s side, bullets at the ready. The sergeant herself busies herself with the barrel of her gun, wiping it down. “Hawkes?”

“Hmm?”

“There have been more Phantom Scythe members than we can count on one finger,” she says somberly, pausing in her ministrations. “You and I have both acted out of duty - and if we manage to get this city under control, we’re going to have to deal with the consequences.” Kym looks down. “Those people - some of them chose to be criminals. Others didn’t.”

“We’re not talking about people like Kieran here--”

“What if we are? Kieran and Lauren both?” she retorts. _Structures become shackles._ “I’ve hurt more people than I have in a lifetime today alone.”

_The true enemy lives up in an ivory tower._

“Crossing into one meter territory, lieutenant!” yells another officer.

Bullets fly through the air, answering gunshots from the other side.

Fire shoots up in the air as one bullet hits a car, police ducking behind other automobiles as the vehicle ricochets through the air. Will stumbles back from the blast, shielding Kym with him - and when he parts from her, checking to see if he’s been injured, a light trickle of crimson goes down his left temple.

He curses under his breath. “I can’t--”

“I’ll help you,” she says, holding his shoulders. _“Close in!”_

As the 11th and 10th precinct forces begin to move, Kym lifts his arm over her shoulders, one hand on the trigger of her rifle. “I’ll be your eyes, lieutenant. You’ve already done enough worrying for everyone here.”

“Captain,” he gasps out.

“What?”

“Hermann won’t remain there for long,” he says somberly, “not with the way he handled the crisis and how he took the Aevasthers’ side. The title of captain’s going to fall to me. I’d be colonel if it weren’t for him.”

Kym falls silent, but eventually, her lips curve into a small smile.

“Suppose that makes _me_ your lieutenant, then.” She quirks a brow up as they walk forward. “Does that annoy you, Hawkes?”

“Annoy me as much as you want, Ladell,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “Never change.”

____

He’d broken her sword with nothing but his bare hands, once.

Lauren does well enough to keep him at bay, but her strength is fading faster than it normally would. Her body is exhausted; even with a decade’s worth of scars and muscle to prove her own physical strength, it’s nothing against someone like him. The head of his spear keeps butting into Kieran’s katana with such force she’s afraid the silver metal will break.

Experimentation in a psych ward, was what Kieran had said. It would explain his almost supernatural abilities.

She refuses to let him speak. She’d refused to fight him out of the anger in her heart - and now it spills out in the way she fights, the way she moves, never once letting him breathe. 

He really is her enemy.

Is there nothing but death in the cards for them?

“Tell me this, at least,” she pants, striking over and over again. She doesn’t care if he lies outright. “Did you believe in the cause from the start?”

Dylan slams down the katana onto the ground, momentarily holding it there with his staff. 

“We were never equals, Ren.”

She grits her teeth together, rage pouring into her veins.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

Lauren aims for his heart.

____

“And all this time you were with the Serpents, plotting out your own selfish goals,” remarks Eurydice, crossing her arms. “You left. You’re no longer one of us, _Minerva.”_

Athena only lets a twitch of her lips show through the facade of calm she exudes. “I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t have my own goals in mind. I left to pursue a better future for our troupe. I fell for lies the Viper put forward. But that doesn’t excuse my actions. I’m not seeking forgiveness.”

“Good,” Artemis says from the back, hands on her hips. “You’re not getting it.”

“The only reason I’ve come down here is to alert you of the Huntress’s forces.” Athena motions with her free hand. “If we act now, we can join them at the Foxglove and offer assistance if needed.”

“The--” Eurydice freezes. 

_Persephone._

“She’s with Aidoneus and that boy,” Hecate warns. “If they’re not at the castle - we have to go _now.”_

____

“Last blockade!” Will yells. And to Kym, quieter: “I can’t spot--”

“Ten o’clock,” she says, hovering at his shoulder. “Feel my hand on the trigger.” They move as one, controlling the Lee-Enfield rifle as their officers take down the last of the precinct. Her hands curve over his, so much smaller than his own, but they don’t tremble as they feel the prints of calluses on the trigger, ready to shoot.

And aim.

The bullet flies through the air, and it strikes true like an arrow. The barricade of metal comes crashing down, groaning fiercely, the last round of officers advancing onto the gunmen in front of them. She can hear the whining of sirens in the distance - help has come at last, static voices on the radios nearby.

Her superior curses under his breath as he reaches for the map in his pocket, unsheathing it. Kym flings it open as a vehicle skids behind them, someone running out to check the scene. 

“Lieutenant Hawkes! Sergeant Ladell!”

“We’re fine,” he insists as he thrusts the map at the officer. “Our injuries come later. The medics are already on their way here.” On the paper is a circled dot near the lower precincts. “Here. You need to get us there as soon as possible.”

“Sir, there’s nothing there--”

“There is,” Kym says, pointing directly to the cathedral spot on the map. Tiny enough to render it almost invisible to the naked eye. “Right there. Get all forces to the Foxglove Compound, now. The Leader of the Phantom Scythe is there, and we are getting him for _good.”_

____

She’s lost him again.

It shouldn’t surprise her, but he had acted too fast for her to see, and now she walks in darkness, navigating a seemingly endless labyrinth of shadows. Lauren roars in anger, slamming the sword against the wall, brick crumbling beneath her touch. The scent of petrichor is more potent than ever, the water level rising up to meet her ankles, lichens springing in-between the bricks.

_“Dylan!”_ she shrieks. 

Her voice echoes. A song, over and over again.

_“Come and face me!”_

A low rumble. Footsteps.

He’s always done this. Run away from her, too fast for her to ever catch up to him. In her dreams, and now in her reality, she cannot catch him, and when she does, he slips out of her grasp. Perhaps this is her last ghost, instead of the others.

_“Give up!”_ It’s a hoarse, desperate cry. _“I’ve already disabled the main bomb. Give up!”_

No response. But in her ears, the wind whistles, as if coming from above. Something faint glitters up at her from the black waters - almost a sickly green color.

Tainted nitroglycerin.

_You hurt the man I love. You’ve hurt the people I love. You’ve killed the only blood family I had left._

Her hands quiver around the hilt of Kieran’s katana as she emerges into a larger archway, water splashing around her feet. She turns around just in time to see him raise the last explosive, and flings it out of his hands as she tackles him to the ground.

“You’re coming with me,” she says, pinning him there.

The nitroglycerin bomb detonates, and she holds him in her arms as they fall, the floor crumbling beneath their feet as water and rock both fall into nothing, white and red mixing in a swirl of poison as they tumble down, down, down.

____

Lauren feels nothing.

For a long time, nothing feels like death. 

Nothing is bliss. She doesn’t have to concern herself with the fact that she may have lost all she loved, and that perhaps shielding herself from weakness may have been the best path forward after all. She doesn’t have to pay attention to how her body aches, how the harness now feels like a deadweight, how Kieran’s katana is now sunken in the waves. How she has been betrayed and lied and stolen from all these years. 

In nothing, she can just float, the faint feel of something velvet touching her eyes.

But somehow, the light comes in, and forces her to awaken. A stab of pain rocks her head, and she clutches it. Her hair is damp, a miniature ocean of black stretching out beneath her. The place she’s landed in is below the catacombs - deeper underground. A large hole stretches in the wall above her, rock tumbling down still, in fragments. The explosion had reached far enough to bring faint wisps of sunlight in - and sheds light on the one thing Lauren had not expected to grow here.

A large, budding tree, with white blossoms falling onto the currents. By it lies Dylan’s unconscious body, hair nearly the same shade of the magnolias. 

She grasps for the hilt of a sword, and finds it, using it as a walking stick to crawl over to him. His breathing is shallow, and the weapon trembles in her hands. The anger is out of her reach once more. In sleep he looks innocent. Just like any other boy.

Lauren squeezes the katana in her hands tighter. It doesn’t budge.

She’s not sure why she pulls him forward, lifting him up against the trunk of the tree. Or brushes aside his hair, almost in a gesture of affection.

Gray meets gold.

“Are…” His voice is weak. A pitch reaches her ears, low and tinny. “Are we dead?”

“No.” She looks around. “We survived the fall. There’s enough underground water here to warrant a river.” The fire returns to her hands, and she uses it, pulling him forward. 

“I told you I was capable of this.”

**“I knew.”** She reels back in shock at the same time he does. Dylan blinks at her, eventually letting out a somber sigh. “Ah. I can’t keep it up anymore, I suppose. Too weak to.”

“Even if you believed this city was rotten to the core, you’ve only made it worse,” she spits his way, straightening up. “Even if you didn’t know everything that was going on, you felt the effects. Thousands slaughtered, kids killed, people done wrong. You knew what was going on and you didn’t do a _single thing!”_

“Revolutions are not civil--”

_“Don’t use that crap with me!”_ she yells, shaking him. “The Phantom Scythe told us that for years. You hurt Ardhalis as much as the royals hurt us! We didn’t have to stay silent and stay peaceful but _this -_ you knew.” Lauren is quivering now, with the force of her grief. “You knew you were going to where extremes meet.”

“Oh, like you didn’t have everything?!” he finally shouts back, emotion showing in his face for once. Gone is the calculated and emotionless man. “If it weren’t for Allendale, would you even be on the side of true justice? You would’ve become one of them. Worn _their_ mask.”

She nearly punches the tree. “You…”

And freezes. 

She realizes it, then. That they are the same. “You believed you didn’t have a choice.”

“Like I ever did? Like you did?” Dylan sags lower. “Like _Kieran did.”_ He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just--”

“I get it now,” Lauren whispers. “We’re alike.”

_“We’re nothing alike.”_

“We’re alike,” she repeats. “Violence as the only way out. Vengeance as the only way out.” She looks down at the weapon in her hands, and that’s when he makes to speak again.

“You know what to do.” Dylan closes his eyes, mouth twitching upwards a little. “End it. End me, and end it all. There is no hope for this city unless I am gone. And whatever hope you had left for me - it’s too late for that now.”

Lauren’s jaw clenches. Slowly, she raises the katana, silver piercing the air, a glittering light. 

One blow. One mercy. One gone to spare thousands of lives more.

She lets the sword fall as she leans forward, hand over his shoulder. Dylan arches back, hissing through his teeth as the metal scrapes his skin - and pierces it no further. He stares through the opening of the collapsed roof; watching the white blossoms fall down, down, slivers of snow that tumble down onto both of them, in a history once destined to end in tragedy.

A loud clang resonates throughout the shallows as Lauren throws the katana down into the deeper waters, watching it stay there.

“Ren--”

In a sudden burst of anger, she lifts him up by his collar, wincing as she manages - despite all her wounds - to lift him off his feet and slam him into the tree. He gasps as she presses, hard, her golden eyes blazing fury into twin scythes of gray. “I hate you. I really, _really do._ And if you had my ability you’d know I’m not lying. Do you _understand?!”_ she exclaims, voice raw with emotion. “I refuse to take another life. I _refuse._ All my life I’ve done nothing but take, even when I thought I was giving. Now you want me to end this city’s suffering through more death? _How dare you.”_

_“Ren.”_ Dylan stares her down. “This isn’t going to be easy, you have to--”

“I,” she hisses, “don’t _have_ to do anything.” Her grip softens, and she sighs. “I will not kill you. I’ve had a lifetime of blood on my hands, and shackles on my wrists. I am done with being a slave to murderers and liars and worse. I am taking you with me, and that is final. You will face justice - but I will _not kill you.”_

He can only stare open-mouthed in silence. The Leader shakes his head, rumpled white hair falling over his brow. Lauren hauls his arm over his shoulders, letting out a sharp gasp of pain as she stands, finally, but manages to get up again - again, and again, and again, in the hopes that this will be her last battlefield, casting eyes to the light above.

Onward and upward.

____

“Hold your fire!” Will orders, as the police surround the entrance to the Foxglove. “Do _not_ shoot!”

“Come on, come on,” mutters Kym under her breath. “How are you doing, White?”

“Fair as always, sergeant,” Kieran attempts to quip, but winces as the medic presses another bandage to his chest, holding onto her for leverage. “Can you see anything yet?” 

The worry is clear in his voice. On his back are Lauren’s shortswords, strapped to his own harness. She keeps glancing into the ruined archway, beyond the doors, where smoke still trails from the nitroglycerin explosion. No one has come out yet, and every second that ticks down is a second lost for rescue.

“That’s it!” she yells hoarsely, refusing to cry just yet. “Send in a rescue team!”

“Kym, _wait!”_ Will holds out a hand, looking through his bandages with one clear blue eye. “She’s alive!”

She can hardly manage to acknowledge his words as true, but the proof shows up soon enough - a redheaded figure stumbling through the smoke, holding Dylan close to her, grime and crimson streaking her skin. Lauren barely manages another step before she collapses to the ground, wincing, as the officers move forward to surround Dylan, a medic helping Lauren sit up.

“Don’t shoot,” she croaks out. “Dylan--”

“I surrender,” he says, holding up his hands. “I stand down as the Leader of the Phantom Scythe. I would be dead if not for Lauren Sinclair’s mercy.” He glances back at her, meeting her gaze evenly. 

“I never thought you’d be like this, Ren.”

“What?” she gasps out.

He smiles as they start to cuff him. “The strongest of us all.”

She can only watch in silence as they lead him away, a team of particularly enraged officers surrounding the open automobile in his path. March is among the detectives standing by, not knowing what to make of the whole situation - much less an entire circus troupe standing in the throes of the police force, underneath the protection of their leaders. 

Kym tackles Lauren before she can speak. Will is the second to embrace her from behind, squeezing her tightly. The former assassin is lithe in her arms, and she grasps both of them tightly, as if clinging to a lifeline in the middle of the sea. She doesn’t remember who starts sobbing first, but eventually, all three of them are crying, Lauren momentarily breaking out of the trance to gesture to Kieran, who has started to struggle back up, despite the medic’s insistence he stay put.

“Darling--”

She flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Soon enough, they’re by his side, too, all four of them absolute messes as they collapse into each other, hardly daring to believe the outcome. 

“It’s over,” Lauren whispers, cupping Kieran’s face as she looks at all three of them, all four of them scarred, permanently, but alive, and _here._ “The worst is over.”

“Good grief.” Kym erupts into nervous laughter as she tugs Kieran and Lauren forward, each of them holding onto each other for some sort of support. 

“It’s actually over,” Will murmurs, leaning against her. She leans into his touch, Kieran on her right, black hair waving in the wind as he presses his face to Lauren’s cheek. “I can’t believe it.”

“There’s still work to be done.”

“Save it, flower boy.” The sergeant nudges him.

“Flower boy?!”

“She needs something to call you now,” Will amends, as Kym giggles slyly.

“Of course she does,” Kieran says, sighing. But Lauren shifts her weight forward as she tilts her head upwards.

“You guys - _look.”_

The sun has risen at last, through the clear sky shaded in pink and violet, tints of blue erupting on the palette spreading above them. And in the garden that once housed so much pain, new things bloom, flower petals frolicking in the air, with the promise of new growth and new beginnings on the wind. 

  
_Spring_ has come at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes our three-part climax.
> 
> I'm going to keep this brief, because if I don't, I'm going to end up going on an entire rant. SO:
> 
> I debated killing off Dylan. I'm pretty sure a lot of you thought death the only option for the main villain of this story, and so did I at first. But Dylan's no one-dimensional main villain - I wanted to challenge myself with that. I wanted to do better. And so I chose instead to make the main villain our antiheroes had to defeat a layered one. Is there a line between men and monsters? Is there a line between trauma, abuse, and all-out evil? Dylan is just as traumatized as Kieran, Lauren, and Belladonna - which certainly does _not_ excuse his actions, and does not excuse Bella's - as I have stated in my past AN - but makes them understandable. I regret my past incompetence deeply, as I have killed him off in past one-shots. But I feel like this fic has made me grow as a writer, and now I present to you the product of my growth.
> 
> Scheherazade is about, above all else, the power of love and mercy. And call me a fool - but I don't think it right to end a story about mercy with one last death.
> 
> We've come this far, folks. Next chapter will technically be the end - and 38 the epilogue.


	37. exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven years ago, this was where it all started.
> 
> Eleven years ago, a girl had come crashing through the flowers with daisies in her hair, and now, a woman of twenty-two comes running through the glass doors, two suitcases in her hand, auburn hair free and wild in the wind, coat open and waving a sky blue as she runs.
> 
> She is a girl, chasing after a boy.
> 
> She is running after her own soul.

“You’re losing.”

“You haven’t even reached 21 yet, so no, I haven’t.”

“Kym, he hasn’t thrown down his set.”

“I can tell by the look in his eyes. It’s what I like to call the Lieutenant Face. Like his normal face, but only much more serious. So serious that it’s funny.”

“Don’t poke the bear, Kym.”

“Careful sitting up, you’re going to strain yourself--”

“I’m fine,” amends Kieran, waving off the sergeant’s concerns as the hospital bed creaks beneath his weight, Lauren shuffling to the side of the already-cramped space where the four of them are jammed together. He delicately places another card on the table, flipping over the blackjack set to reveal - by all odds - a total of 21. “Also, I win.”

“I almost had it,” Will groans. He almost tips over the mattress, but doesn’t as Lauren pulls him up. 

“Careful there. You know, they technically can kick us all back out to our individual rooms. Although I won’t ask how Kym managed to come all the way here despite being all the way on the other side of the hospital.”

“Magic, my dear queen!”

“Sure,” Lauren quips, gently smacking her nose with an ace of spades. She glances towards Kieran, brushing aside his messy hair curling over his brow, still undone. “How’s the pain?”

“Better, now that you’re all here,” he says truthfully. “The medication’s been helping. But I’ll still have a scar.” He shrugs. “Good bye, modeling career.”

“Shame.” Kym starts shuffling the deck again. “You would’ve looked good in bikinis.”

“If I have to do that, Will has to put on that frilly maid outfit you keep talking about.”

“I’d rather die,” the lieutenant croaks out.

“Come on. You won’t even consider it, comrade?”

“I am not your _comrade--”_ The blonde is close to turning a delightful shade of red when the door swings open, and all four of them jump in unison to see a tall man in a suit by the wooden doorframe. He coughs lightly, gesturing to his briefcase.

“Apologies for the disturbance. I’m looking for a...Kieran White and Lauren Sinclair?” 

“That would be us,” Lauren says cautiously, swinging her feet off the bed, hands in her lap as her hospital nightgown shifts around her. “If I may ask, what’s the issue?”

“I’m Attorney Delacour. The Sinclair’s family attorney,” he amends, gesturing. “I understand all four of you are under governmental care given your role in amending Ardhalis’s current state - and Miss Ladell and Sir Hawkes are under federal protection as well, given their role as high-ranking officers. However, the High Council has discovered your _former statuses,_ to be frank. They would like to discuss a sentencing for you both.”

“So we’re under arrest,” Kieran says grimly.

“Essentially, yes,” Delacour says, brow furrowed. “I hate to be a bringer of unfortunate news, but...yes.”

____

A cell is no place for a woman of luxury. But Justice, the cold lady of iron, concedes nothing to those with more money, more status, more everything, when the side of her that is truthful prevails, and that is why Lizbeth Aevasther sits behind bars within the Tower, dressed in dark prison garb and without her crown. The earrings still dangle from her ears, sharp points of gold like a taunt. Her hair, still in its updo, has lost its luster - or perhaps that’s just from the shadows coming in.

“You’ve got a visitor,” announces the guard who comes to crack open the metal door. He hesitates for a second - people have always added ‘Your Majesty’ to the end of that sentence - but reminds himself that she is no longer what she used to be, and leaves the door open. 

He almost looks elated she’s here.

She’s never felt more disgusted in her life to be among commoners and worse things.

Who enters isn’t a surprise to her at all. The same blonde hair, eyes alight with something akin to worry. The door closes behind Philip as he crouches at her feet, hands clasped together. 

“Lizbeth,” he murmurs. They’ve been married for a while now, but it’s never been that of a normal one. Their marriage was always restrained in the sense that neither of them could be bound to each other; only duty, duty first, whether it was personal or political. And Lizbeth was not a maiden to be wooed by sweet words and honeyed nothings. It had always been cold underneath every facade they put on. 

So when he repeats her name, she isn’t sure whether she scales the barricade between lover or enemy. Lover and traitor. Perhaps he hasn’t been either for a long, long time. Maybe now he only becomes both.

“Philip.”

“How are you doing?”

“That’s none of your concern,” she says, voice a flat monotone. “Given how those terrorists treated both of us, I’d assumed you were in the Tower as well.”

“I was,” he amends, sighing lightly. The lines on his face only seem deeper in the light. “They let me go on one condition and one condition alone.”

“What did you do?” she hisses suddenly, leaning forward. Philip still meets her eyes, but there’s a certain determination in them. She’s seen that sort of determination before: determination she’d once wiped out. _“Philip--”_

“I will no longer be king,” he says abruptly, standing, “and the Phantom Scythe will stand down. But that’s not why I’m no longer reigning.” The former ruler of Ardhalis turns his back on his wife, pacing briefly on the cobblestone tiles. “The monarchy, as of one week from now, will be abolished. The crown will no longer exist, and a new appointed High Council will take over.”

Lizbeth grabs his arm, turning him around sharply. Her blue eyes bore into his own, alight with fury. “You conceded. You _conceded_ to an organization of criminals and killers--”

“I conceded _nothing,”_ he fires back, slamming down a fist into his other hand. “Look at what we’ve done to this city. Look at what we both have done! We’ve placed bandages on wounds that have bled for ten years. And you have ripped them out one by one. Hell, Lizbeth - you had Dakan--”

_“You don’t speak his name here.”_

“Whatever you wanted, give it up. It’s over,” Philip insists, sweeping a hand aside. “I’ve been making the same mistakes for years. And you’re wrong in calling me a free man. I must refer to Berelli after this. He and the Council will decide my fate after I have helped them undo what me and my father built.”

“You negotiated my punishment too, then?” She quivers with fury as Philip opens the door, hesitating there. “Well? When is my execution, _husband?”_

He doesn’t speak for a long while.

“The death penalty act will remain dormant for now,” he says slowly. “You are going to receive life.”

Before she can speak, Philip cuts her off.

“They were right, you know. Arthur deserves better parents.” And when he looks back at her, she sees a thousand things at once. “But he still needs his mother.”

____

“Lady Sinclair?”

The title still shocks after all this time. She glances up to see Delacour with a sheaf of papers in his hands, gesturing to the inside of the courtroom. The prison uniform - although she has not been in a cell herself yet - hangs off her, ill-fitted, but she stands with dignity anyway, cuffed hands in front of her.

“I’m ready,” she says, exhaling as the doors open. Delacour nods, walking alongside her as the crowd on either sides of the court begin to murmur loudly at her appearance, then loudly, the whispers morphing into exclamations. Red hair. Scarlet rivers. Two plus two equals a decade’s worth of pain she’s inflicted on a damaged city. 

_“It’s her, she was part of Lune--”_

_“That girl murdered an entire family once, you know--”_

_“Scarlet Queen? You mean to say that beast walks among us--?”_

She comes to a stop in front of the judge, chains clinking around her wrists.

“Your Honor, if we may proceed?”

The judge nods. “Very well. We are here - at last - at the trial of Ardhalis’s former Scarlet Queen, Lauren Sinclair. Lady Sinclair - how do you plead?”

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to lie and say ‘not guilty’ and watch Delacour fumble an argument for her guiltiness. It would be incredibly easy to lean on nepotism and feign innocence just so she could be spared and live a somewhat normal life, if not a regular life at all. Maybe the girl she once was would’ve. Would’ve clawed tooth and nail to keep her place. But she isn’t that girl anymore.

“Guilty,” she says at last.

____

“What’d they say?” Kym asks nervously. “Her condition - is it--?”

None of them really want to speak the truth out loud - _inflicted by proxy. Due to Stefan’s methodical poisonings._ But Will grabs her hands, squeezing the tiny palms in his hands gently. The doctor is still attending to Josephine Hawkes inside, the hospital bustling with energy. He can see out of both eyes, but there’s going to be a minor scar across his eyebrow and down his eyelids. It’ll serve as a reminder of hard choices - hard choices that are right in the end, anyhow.

“She does have minor Alzheimers’,” he amends. “But...he was speeding up the process. She--” He breaks off. “She has--”

“A small window of time,” Kym murmurs. “But they’re uncertain in her diagnosis, right? She might still survive it.”

“Maybe. I just - I don’t know.” Will rakes a hand through his hair, leaning his head on Kym’s shoulder. “She could start recognizing me after a while. But I still have time. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse, and at this point, it’s killing me.”

“Then we’re just going to have to do the best we can,” she insists, tilting his chin up. Fierce determination swirls in the hazel of her irises, and he knows, then, that she really will catch him if and when he falls. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And if you need--”

“You’re here,” he says, squeezing her hand. 

“I’m here,” she promises. “I’m not leaving, ever.”

“Sir Hawkes?” the physician calls. “Your mother is waiting for you.”

“Rafael, you mean.”

“No, you,” he insists, gesturing inside. Seeing both occupants’ shock, he bows slightly, closing the door behind him as he leaves. “You may visit her, then.”

When the doctor’s gone, he stands there, frozen, until Kym tugs him forward, until they’re at the door. Behind the frosted glass windows, he can see a slim blonde figure sitting up in her bed.

“Whatever happens, we face it together,” she says. “Ready?”

_Will? Will, is that you?_

“Ready.”

____

“I’ve made an appointment,” she insists, tapping the sheet with a finger. “Check again, please.”

The guard looks down briefly, furrowing his brow. “Lauren Sinclair - ah, here you are. You’re only scheduled for a ten-minute visit, however, due to your status in the trial system. And you can’t visit inside the cell.”

She crosses her arms. “The High Council may think him still a threat, but I’m a loose criminal on the streets, too. Delacour argued for my visit here. If you’ve been given orders to contain him in there - I assure you, he bears no harm.”

“Miss Sinclair--”

“Let me in,” she insists. “He’s my--” _Boyfriend?_ No. No, he wasn’t that, really. _Husband?_ Not that either. More than that. Whatever the two of them shared transcended labels. _Other half, half of my soul, my heart in his and his in mine._ “--partner.”

“Significant other,” the guard murmurs, pencil rapping against the sign-up sheet. He looks up at her warily. “We only allow half-hour visits for those.”

“It’ll do.” She tries to quell her nerves; it doesn’t work. “And a cell visit as well.”

He nods, though not with a fair share of reluctance, and presses the intercom on the side of the prison. A second later, a beep sounds, and the doors slide open to reveal a line of cells on either side of a large stone hallway. She’s escorted down what feels like a hundred cages, and when they come to a stop in front of one labelled 1111, the guard unlocks the metal sliding door, which slides open to reveal Kieran in prison uniform, slightly hunched over, looking out the window. When he sees her, he straightens up - for a second, the light entering his eyes, bright turquoise lit up in joy - but doesn’t get the chance to speak as she runs towards him, crashing into his arms as the guard leaves. The scent of sandalwood on him is faded, but she still breathes it in as she pulls back, stealing a brief kiss before she gazes at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Lauren jokes, the tension gone from her voice at last. 

He grins coyly. “You’re rather fancily dressed, darling.”

“What, I can’t dress up to visit you?” she retorts, flushing slightly as she looks down at her outfit: a billowy ivory blouse tucked into a pencil skirt colored in shades that remind him of an autumn long gone, paired with her ever-present dark heels. 

“Lovely,” he murmurs, and she yelps in surprise as he shifts her into his lap, burying his face in her shoulder. 

“Missed you.”

She brushes her lips over his forehead as they embrace each other, tighter this time. “Missed you too. How’s everything?”

“They’re planning on my trial being next week. You got out already?”

“As if they’d let one half of Lune walk free,” she snorts. A thought springs to mind, formerly long-forgotten, and she holds up a finger, rummaging in her bag. When Lauren sets it to the side, she pulls out a sketchbook and set of charcoal pens, taking in the way his eyes widen in surprise. 

“Thought you might be bored.” He still hasn’t spoken. “Do you like them?”

“You actually--” Kieran breaks off, pulling her in for another soul-crushing kiss. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I really don’t know how I ended up with someone like you.”

A flush spreads over her face at the comment. She bows her head, barely speaking in a whisper. “You know, you haven’t told me you love me yet.”

“But I have all my life.” He pulls her closer, the two of them inseparable, twin stars on a colliding course. “I only wish I could have you for longer. My marvel. My beloved.”

“Say it anyway.” Lauren swipes the pad of her thumb over his jawbone, sharp enough to cut glass. He doesn’t get a chance to speak at first when she silences him with her mouth, and when she pulls away, he looks all too much like a rather tousled boy who’d just succeeded in getting the girl he’d been yearning after all these years to be his. Just a boy.

“I love you,” he says, and she’s never felt more alive. It’s Kieran who takes the lead now, her skirt shifting as she moves to settle down on the stone bench, still warm in his arms as he sets her down, bruising her mouth with kisses. “I love you. I _do.”_

“I love you, too.” Even when she admits what’s always been there, it still surprises both of them. He hovers above her, stilling in his movements, one hand threading through her auburn locks. She grips his hand, bringing it down to her chest, holding him there with a reverence strong enough to last decades, and Lauren knows keenly that this is the most peace she’s ever had in her entire life. The light frames both of them in contrasting black and white, a portrait of two lovers both taking the first step into _something -_ something that terrifies her. It’s nothing like the fear she’s felt all this while; not the fear of being cut by the strings the puppeteers commanding her entire life have operated ever since she was a child. It’s falling, only that, the act of falling. 

This time, maybe it’s alright to fall, because he will catch her, and she will catch him.

“I--” Blue is still there, her entire world. She shivers as his voice darkens, as his movements grow more languid, his hand coming to the edge of her blouse, a thumb nudging through the cloth to stroke a motion over her bare abdomen. “Lauren, do you…”

She swallows. “Let me.”

Kieran makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as she tugs at his shirt, the shift coming off in two smooth strokes, tossing it to the ground. Like burnished bronze, marble to the touch - if marble were the warmest shade of honey, her fingertips smoothing over the cracks and scars on his back. She raises her mouth to the first one, and he grips onto her tighter as she moves to the beginnings of a second, a third, stroking the burn scar on his chest with her free hand. Remaking him whole, closing the wounds.

He really is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“There is no one else,” she murmurs against his skin, gasping for air as he flicks her belt open. “There is no one else I want to do this with.”

“Darling--”

She cups his cheek. _“Yes.”_

____

Kieran White is good at many things.

He is also very, _very_ good at learning her.

____

When she exits the prison cell, Kym is waiting for her. All the former sergeant does is flick her eyes up and down Lauren’s appearance - relatively normal, save for her disheveled hair and slightly rumpled skirt. 

“Finally,” she sighs, as the redhead nearly turns the same color as her signature locks. “I was beginning to think you two would go insane if you didn’t--”

“Do not say a _word,”_ she snaps, blushing deeper as Kym slings an arm over her shoulders, cackling like a witch as they make their way out.

____

When her second trial ends, they’re waiting for her.

She doesn’t see them at first - the two hooded figures, dressed in long coats. But a pair of dark eyes catch her attention, and she realizes that her old protegee has come along once again, leaning against a marble column. Lauren waits until Delacour and her own legal team are out of sight, and instantly makes for Dunya, the two crashing into each other tightly.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” she admonishes the younger girl, but the two still erupt into laughter at the sight of each other. A dark braid topples over the fur coat she wears, and Lauren’s blood runs cold as she sees the second, taller figure approach - pink hair and rouged lips poking out of black material.

“You know I had to be - Lauren?”

“Dunya, get behind me,” she warns, but the Huntress grabs her wrist.

“It’s fine,” she reassures her, holding up her hands. “It’s fine. She’s--” All of them tense up as Belladonna removes her hood, standing stiffly next to Dunya. “She’s with me.”

Lauren gapes in astonishment. “She’s - she’s with _you?”_

“Don’t worry, Scarlet. I’m not planning on any killing sprees,” Belladonna bites out, rolling her eyes. But the bitterness that once crossed the old serpent’s face is...diluted, almost. If Lauren had to describe it, it would be a grudging peace. “I must admit, I didn’t expect the Huntress to blackmail me using my old forces. But the offers she gives out is affable.”

It’s her turn to blink twice again. “You took over Belladonna’s forces.”

Dunya shrugs sheepishly. “Look, before you say anything, I have a plan--”

“I couldn’t be more _proud of you,”_ she says, smirking widely at Belladonna’s aggravation, “at one-upping an old friend.”

“We were hardly allies, Lauren,” she snaps. “And yes, Dunya has learned well. Little manipulator, she is. I mean it, you know. If you won’t stick to your noble revenge quest, I will. There are still plenty of rotten ones in this city and ones pouring into it. She and I have managed to recruit a fair amount of hires - in it for the money, all fickle humans are - and started to track them down.” She holds up a perfectly polished nail to Lauren’s objection. “You told me to run. I ran, and found her.”

“And now you’re both on the run, permanently, as mercenaries,” she drawls. “Forgive me if I have my doubts, Bella.”

“Oh, I had mine, too,” Dunya says reassuringly. “But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Belladonna turning back to being an assassin for hire.”

“And I don’t have to worry and shouldn’t instantly alert everyone in here because…”

“I get to play with fire,” the serpent herself says, and on cue, clicks open a lighter. “I do nothing sweetly as you do, Lauren. If you were hoping for a lovely reunion in which I’d fall at your feet, you were wrong.”

“Wasn’t expecting that.” She rolls her eyes. But the two - mismatched and temperamental as they may be - have somehow formed an alliance. As criminals still, but to hunt down other criminals.

“Don’t let them find you,” Lauren says at last, gripping Dunya in a tight hug. “You got that?”

“I won’t.” Brown eyes meet her own. “But you know where to find me.”

Before she can say another word, they vanish before her eyes. 

“Snakes,” she scoffs under her breath.

____

Both Dylan Rosenthal and Lizbeth Aevasther will face life, the newspapers late that night croon. Lauren reads Le Journal with a sense of detachment - acceptance, really. She’d made her peace with her old friend and old enemy, and the queen will have to live with her regrets - if she has any - for the remainder of her years. It would all be relatively normal news save for the chains around her wrists, which a couple of guards are now taking off her.

“Any results from the third?”

“The Council will decide your fate,” is all Delacour says, as the door swings open within the court building. “For now, you’re allowed free reign. Do you have residence still?”

“I know someone who I can ask,” she says slowly.

When she arrives at Hawkes Manor at nearly midnight, therefore, it’s a surprise to Will - and Kym, who has apparently decided to assume temporary roommate status until Josephine is released from the hospital. Both are enthusiastic to see her, but the absence of Kieran is like a pain in all their chests; hers the most keen. And they know this, and need to distract themselves, so they stay late into the night fawning over album pictures of baby Will, fighting over the cookies they attempt - read, _attempt_ \- to bake in the oven even though Lauren still cannot cook to save her life, and go to bed near dawn. 

She falls asleep on the comfort of his couch, the knowledge that of her two of her dearest friends are nearby lulling her to a slow slumber, and when she grows unconscious, eventually, she is not surprised by who she meets. 

Lauren knows, somehow, that this is the final barrier she must cross.

The girl in front of her is barely twelve, half her height. She smiles, but there’s a certain somberness to it, the years of grief welling in her eyes. She is burdened by nothing, and only a knowledge that things - in another life - could have gone much, much more differently. A daisy twirls in her hands, the buttery-yellow dress she wears waving in the wind. Allendale Train Station is whole and hale around them, before the storm, a haven once more, the sun coming through the awnings.

“Hello,” she says, and the girl’s golden eyes sparkle in recognition. “It’s been a while.”

Her younger self does not speak. She does not have to; she is only a memory now.

“I’m sorry,” she says, kneeling to the girl’s height. “I really am.” But this time, the regret does not swallow her. She treads water and fire both, letting neither burn nor freeze her. “You’re going to go through so much. So, _so much._ But - I have to stop thinking. About what could’ve been. Don’t I?” A nod. “And it’s not going to leave my mind instantly, I know. The ghosts, the memories. Old wounds. But I have to start. So I let you go,” she says, as younger Lauren steps in front of her, small fingers prying her hands apart until a daisy rests in her own hands.

“Goodbye,” she whispers, stroking the girl’s cheek. 

And stands, watching her walk into the distance, taking another child’s hand.

But this time, she sees something different - in the distance, there is a boy with brilliant blue eyes, looking right at her.

____

Nepotism isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.

Because of Tristan’s standing - despite her letter to Lucy - Lauren still retains a good amount of the Sinclair fortune. And because of the Sinclair family’s wealth, they have decided that she will not face capital punishment: instead, resigned to five years of civil service under severe scrutiny. The Phantom Scythe’s methods of indoctrination have been published, and although it has not swayed public opinion in their favor - it will never - they no longer call for their heads. 

The deaths of many Phantom Scythe medical officials and former associates have quelled that need for bloodshed, at least, which the new High Council has ordered. The fact that at least one Aevasther is behind bars lends a helping hand as well. But there’s still work to be done. She knows some former assassins and criminals have escaped; blight just doesn’t go away after years of tumult. 

And lastly, because of her association to Kieran, the council will not have him sentenced for a good amount of years. Instead, he will face permanent exile to the southern lands, near Beltone. It’s been made very clear by the government that if she interferes with his sentence, she will face consequences. She can’t anyhow; her hands are tied. This is more than they deserve - it’s justice, not mercy, at its finest.

She should be elated.

She isn’t.

_“I left my heart in the old Ardhalis blue, it’s sad to say, but it’s true, I left my heart there with you…”_

Lauren slams the glass on the bar countertop. The rickety tavern she’s currently occupying is nearly empty, in the lower part of the 11th precinct. The bartender doesn’t say a word as he fills the crystal shotglass in front of her again, going back to wiping down wine glasses as she tosses bitter liquid back into her throat. It’s watery and weak, but she can’t bring herself to care much. A bell rings as the door opens, bringing in a gust of spring wind. She groans lowly as she folds her arms, head buried in them - and proceeds to be surrounded by two familiar figures.

“Out of all the places you could’ve chosen,” reprives Kym. “This is the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You went looking for me?” she asks, muffled through the sleeves of her shirt.

“Kym knocked on about twenty taverns,” Will corrects. “I helped a bit.”

“I mean it, though.” She slides on the barstool next to her, a hand on her shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

She doesn’t respond. Will takes up the stool on her right, a look of concern marring his features as she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “You miss him?”

Lauren bites down on a wave of emotion. “It’s so much more than that.”

Silence. She can tell they’re both looking at each other. Finally, Kym and Will seem to come to their own private conclusion, and without much preamble, Will gently yanks her up by the collar, forcing her to look at Kym, who is now grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Someone,” she begins, “very smart, but also dumb as rocks, stands beside me now--”

_“Kym--”_

“--and all I’m saying is that if she knew what she wanted, she should go after it,” she finishes softly. “You know what you want.”

“You’ve been through hell and back,” amends Will, refusing to let her look away. “All of us have, but you and him went through so much more.” Before she can speak, he interrupts. “Kym and I have decided to continue the police force. Our own choice. If we’re going to change the system, we can at least turn it on its head instead of leaving it the way it is.” The implication is clear in his voice. “You could become the detective you always wanted to be. More, even. Is that what you want now?”

She knows the answer. Kym’s smile grows into a grin as her eyes widen.

“I--”

“The next train for Beltone leaves at 17:50, in approximately ten minutes,” she says blithely, “and I’m not saying that the train station is somehow near here, or that you would hypothetically be able to get on if you had gotten a ticket - oh, would you look at that--” a ticket lands in her hand, “--and started, I don’t know, _running right now--”_

Lauren’s grabbed the ticket and bolted out of her stool before she can continue. But before she crosses the door, she runs back and squeezes both of them in a hug tightly, holding them there.

“I love you,” she murmurs. “Thank you. For everything.”

And she’s gone, running like the wind.

She doesn’t see it as she leaves in a hurry, but Kym leans on her superior’s shoulder, looking fondly out at her. “Stubborn dummy. You just really need to push her buttons to get her realize what she wants, huh?”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” Will ruffles her hair. 

_“Oh, I left my heart in the old Ardhalis blue…”_

____

Eleven years ago, this was where it all started.

Eleven years ago, a girl had come crashing through the flowers with daisies in her hair, and now, a woman of twenty-two comes running through the glass doors, two suitcases in her hand, auburn hair free and wild in the wind, coat open and waving a sky blue as she runs.

She is a girl, chasing after a boy.

She is running after her own soul.

He’s in front of the train when she finds him, about to board. His hat is tipped over his face, shadows concealing the unreadable expression in his eyes. 

Lauren whistles sharply, and somehow, he knows to look her way - although, truthfully, he’s always known where to find her.

They stand there for only a moment, gasping for breath.

And then they run, and collide.

Her luggage falls to the ground, and so does his hat, as he lifts her off her feet. Lauren wraps her arms around his neck, and Kieran is holding her tightly, hands clawing into her coat, as if she is the one solid and real thing in this world. When she draws back to look at him, there are stars in his eyes.

“Lauren--”

“I’m not letting anything separate us again,” she whispers, running a hand over his cheek. “Not ever.”

Her feet touch the ground, but she is still floating in his arms. “You’re here,” he murmurs, laughing softly as their hands touch, and so do their foreheads, leaning against each other, taking each other in.

“At last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten years in this canon, four months in real time.
> 
> I think it's fitting, really, for Lauren and Kieran to end their journey in the one place that brought them together - however morbid it might've been at first. But if anything is true, they saw each other as the light within an otherwise unescapable darkness, and still see each other as their anchor even now.
> 
> It's been an honor, my darlings. These months have been the some of the best with you at my side. I'll probably have up the epilogue very, very quick - if there no distractions or impediments - and save the brunt of my farewells for then.


	38. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is hope, where the sun embraces the moon, where the earth meets the sea.
> 
> The war is over, but the fight lives on.

**_SEVEN YEARS LATER_ **

  
  
  


When Lauren turns around in the bed, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and daisies, she reaches out her palm, illuminated by dusky sunlight, and finds no one there. It takes a while to quell the thrummings of panic in her heart, but she manages to sit up and not instantly rip off the gray comforters and sprint down the hallway of the house they both share. Their bedroom is filled with relics of a past and present together: scattered sketchbooks on the vanity wherein a gilded mirror reflects her face, shoulder-length hair tumbling down. Watercolor brushes dripped in rainbow-colored mugs filled with water. Plants that hang around the bookshelves, ferns waving green fronds around the windows, lace curtains bringing in patches of light that cast spotlights on the wooden floors. The gladioli he’s planted by the window are a lovely shade of violet - not purple - but sometimes remind her of old memories. 

They don’t stay long, however. She supposes time heals most wounds, as she hurriedly grabs a brush and braids her hair quickly, still slightly anxious as she walks into the hallway leading down the house.

It had been hard, the first two years. Her partner was spontaneous in domestic life, she’d learned, and when she’d first found him missing, she’d nearly forgotten how to breathe. Ran, and ran, and ran, until she was sobbing into the press of his shirt, having found him in the studio, painting her a portrait of the lone black cat that liked to cross their doorstep every now and then.

Now she throws the door to the kitchen open cautiously, but still breathes relief when she finds him there, humming to himself as he flips pancakes on the griddle. Lauren still remembers how to walk without noise as she wraps her arms around his waist, kissing the top of his hair. His hair has grown longer these past few years, too - long enough for him to tie it half-up half-down, the miniature ponytail sticking out in a messy but oddly attractive way.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

“Now I know how to get you up early,” Kieran jokes, but flips the gas on the stove off and hugs her tightly. Her hand curls around his shoulder, the silver of her ring glinting up at her.

She still remembers the look the jewelry seller had given both of them when they came into the shop, requesting a pair of wedding rings. Not engagement ones - wedding rings. Two, he had asked, not one, confirming their statement. The odd look didn’t disappear from his face as they eventually decided on a simple pair of silver rings lined with white gold, Lauren’s with a diamond set in the middle.

There had been no ceremony. Why was there need for one, when they had fought for each other, bled for each other, betrayed and then healed, comforted and knew each other blow for blow, by touch and by breath alone? There was no ceremony on this earth that could possibly express what they already knew or write in paper what they were to each other. 

There was nothing that could shout to the universe what the ending of a story that began like this was: for  _ once upon a time, there was a boy who thought he could not be loved and a girl who thought she could not love,  _ and now they loved each other more than anything in this world.

It had always been there. It was only out of self-doubt that one day, Kieran asked about their relationship.

“Lauren,” he murmured into the curve of her collarbone, her neck, as her thumb circled his palm, both of them beneath the sheets. “Do you want to - is this what you want--?”

“Yes,” she’d said, without preamble. “You?”

“Yes.”

And that had been that.

“The police are coming in again,” he says, as she sets down utensils for their breakfast. “Yearly check-up and all. I’ll be at the studio this morning with the kids, but you said the office let you off for today, right?”

“That they did,” she says, eyeing her investigator badge on the side. “I’ll get them from the train station. You usually bring them over, anyhow.”

The High Councilmen - Lairelosse and Berelli now, as Hughes had retired from his post - once aware of Lauren and Kieran’s status in a foreign country, had assigned yearly checkups to the two criminals Beltone is unaware that they are housing. Both of them have gained careers, but not without careful monitoring from the local government, and so far, no major incidents have occurred.

She’s found fulfillment in her work, taking up cases whenever needed - on her own terms, in her own private office. No shackles to hold her back, no flowers to hold him back. The garden in the back is a reminder of that. Lilies and bluebells and every shade of the rainbow except purple. And where there is supposed to be purple, there is the violet scent of giadoli. 

_ Warrior’s heart. _

“You know, the last time they were here--”

“They might bring along company.” Lauren shrugs through a mouthful of pancake. “Are these blueberries?”

“Does it taste like chocolate to you?”

“Tease,” she says, flicking a berry his way, and he laughs.

____

The local train station is quite small - painted in reds and greens, but she waits by the vintage bench anyway, coat whistling in the wind. Lauren tips down her hat as the train from Ardhalis arrives, the clock chiming the half hour as people spill out, lugging suitcases and baggage behind them. She waits, and waits, the beige on her trench blending in with the neutral palette they all seem to share - until lively gold and blue meet her eyes.

The crowd has nearly emptied by now, and so she walks up to the two people in front of her, grinning slightly.

“Captain Ladell,” she intones. “Chief Hawkes.”

“Detective,” they chorus, and the second Lauren can’t hold back a laugh, Kym and Will rush forward, all three of them embracing each other tightly, Kym nearly picking her up off the ground. Kym’s uniform is a slightly less complicated version of Will’s - both of them wear matching caps, gleaming and polished, gold buttons on their navy suits bright and clear. Will’s badge is layered with trailing amber thread, the hawk insignia still on his chest. The captain’s hair now frames her face in a short bob, longer on one side, and Will’s has only grown slightly unruly.

“Ready for a check-up?”

“We might stay longer,” Kym trills, waving her hands. “More than five hours this time. Maybe ten. Maybe the entire day.”

“No sleepovers?”

She opens her mouth to say something, but a small tug on her leg makes her look down. Lauren steps back a bit, covering her grin with a hand over her mouth. 

“No need to be shy, now,” Kym says, in the softest, loveliest voice she’s ever heard her spoken in. “You two can stop hiding. Lady Lauren doesn’t bite.”

“You said she had knives,” inquires a small voice.

“Still does,” she says, snickering as Lauren throws her a look. “But she’s quite nice. Go on, now.”

About a couple seconds pass before a small head pokes out behind Kym’s legs. The toddler is about five years old, with blonde hair that’s almost white in the light, and has her mother’s eyes. A second head pops out from behind Will, tentatively clinging to his father’s leg, the boy about two, with darker hair and with an inquisitive look on his face.

“Do you want to say hi, Cecilia? Alexei?”

“Hi,” Cecilia Hawkes says tentatively, waving her small hand. She blinks in surprise at something, and points immediately at Lauren’s eyes. “Your eyes!”

Lauren breaks out into laughter, amused by the comment instead of aggravated by it for once. She leans down, taking off her cap. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. “So I suppose some things never change. Gold’s a rare color, huh? Would you like to see up close?”

Alexei is now poking his head out fully, while his older sister starts to walk closer. Lauren doesn’t bat an eyelash as the toddler peers at her, their noses nearly touching.

She wonders what the girl can see in the woman that once destroyed for a living: all of creation, all of life, perhaps, in a thousand golden specks.

“Pretty,” Cecilia chirps at last, and Lauren smiles widely, glancing up at Kym.

“Brought company along for the ‘inspection,’ huh?”

“We can literally do whatever we want as the law,” Will amends, coughing into his palm. “Not everything. But for a friend, yes. Sorry you couldn’t come when they were born. They couldn’t come along until Ceci was old enough.”

“It’s fine,” she murmurs, marveling at their two children anyway. “I don’t mind at all.”

____

For some reason, the second Cecilia and Alexei see Kieran, they don’t hold back from him. Soon enough, the house is filled with the sounds of scampering feet and Cecilia chasing Alexei with a random paintbrush.

Kieran has to lock all the doors, but humors them anyway. They may have been shy around her, but they become little mischief makers around him. He has to take both of them out into the garden, because Alexei has started hyperfixating on the butterflies that like to occupy the garden marigolds. Kym goes with Cecilia, touring her around the hedges, which leaves Will and Lauren alone, if only for a brief moment of respite.

“How’s it going?” she asks, nudging him. “Last thing I heard, the Council was giving you a hard time about your new policies.”

“They were,” the new Chief says, shrugging. “It took us a while to finalize how the new force would work. I didn’t want the focus being on how many arrests were made, or how many cases we cracked. The rehabilitation program’s still in progress, but we fought for it and got it eventually. The rule about guns, too. Officers aren’t allowed to shoot whenever they please.”

“That’s really good to hear,” she says earnestly, leaning back in her chair. “And the Phantom Scythe--”

“Is almost gone,” he amends, a twinkle in his eye. “Not yet.”

“Do we need another... _ vacation  _ for you two?”

“Not anymore, no,” Will says, waving his hand. “Though...if we were to take a  _ break  _ in a couple of months, and took along company,” he says, eyes meeting hers, “that could happen.”

The remnants of their past still live. Cases around the continent and in Ardhalis both. Minor freak accidents. Shootouts, murder plots, the occasional new group being formed from Scythe ashes. And whenever a new case is announced, it just so happens to be a  _ coincidence  _ that the Chief and his captain go on a  _ break,  _ and take along two special guests with them wherever they travel.

And consult a certain knife-wielding mercenary, her arsonist partner in crime, and an oddly competent circus troupe before they go.

Yes - occasionally, they meet. 

And there is hope, where the sun embraces the moon, where the earth meets the sea.

The war is over, but the fight lives on.

“That last mission we did,” she recalls. “When Kieran and I went into the fray alone. There was a man who nearly caught us there and then. He didn’t turn us in,” Lauren recalls. “When he saw us, he just...acknowledged us and left.”

“And he knew you were Lune?”

“Without a doubt. He said something to us before he went away. Along the lines of how we weren't just justice, but mercy. We walked the path between the light and the dark, on a path few could take.” She looks over at her friend. “Will?”

He considers the statement for a while. “I think life’s too short to confine morality into a box. We’re all shades of the same tapestry. I mean, if anything, look at what we did as Eclipse.” A small smile plays over his face. “What we still do.”

She beams back at him. They know, and that’s all they need to do.

“It was hard having Alexei,” Will confides after a while. “After Cecilia.”

“You made it through,” she says consolingly. “How’s Josephine?”

“Remembers enough to be considered well.” He looks towards the garden. “She has her hair, you know?”

“I know.”

“And Alexei’s the chaotic one, but...I don’t regret it. A second of it. I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.”

“I know.”

“Cecilia can’t reach the birds on the bird feeder,” Kym says breathlessly, swinging open the porch door. “Will--?”

“I’m on it,” he says, running out with urgency. She goes out beside him, striding through the rows of trimmed flower bushes, traveling a hand over roses languidly as he jogs over to where Kieran and the girl are. It’s a peaceful scene, just watching Cecilia’s father -  _ father -  _ lift her up, laughing as she perches on his shoulders, watching the sparrows pick at the hanging feeder. Her partner watches, too, and Alexei appears behind him, his sister suddenly eager to follow.

She holds fast to it, the silence, shoes barely making a sound on gravel, as she watches Cecilia and Alexei at Kieran’s side draw him closer to a patch of lily of the valleys, white stems waving in the air.

“Mom said you planted them according to their meanings,” she says, and Lauren’s heart nearly bursts. “Do flowers have meanings?”

“You’d be surprised,” he says, chuckling as he inspects a lily. “Like this one, see?”

“What does that one mean?” Alexei asks.

“Well...let’s see. I remember the translation was something along the lines of  _ lovely to be with you,”  _ he recalls, deep in thought.

“Who made them up?” the girl asks again. “Why a language for flowers?”

“Curious, Cecilia?”

“Yeah,” she says frankly. “Dad said they’re used a lot for people who want to tell each other their feelings.”

“You know what,” he murmurs after a while, smiling softly, “I think the person who invented such a language must’ve loved someone very much to invent a whole new world.”

She listens, then, and watches. Watches him ramble on and on about the thing he loves. And it never gets tiring to watch life come into his face the same way it does with his pens and paints, dark hair waving in the wind, eclipsed by sunlight. At some point, they ask about her. And they ask - although they do not know all - about the past.

She catches one line as she is about to leave.

“I was loved,” Kieran says softly, so only young ears can hear. “And that made all the difference.”

____

“One,” he says, after dinner, after Alexei has managed to get spaghetti sauce on the walls, and all four of them are cleaning up seperate areas of the dining room. “We are having  _ one.” _

“So you do want to have one, then?” she says, smirking, and he nearly chokes on air. Lauren keeps going anyway. “I always wanted two. Or twins. Nathaniel for a boy.”

“And for a girl?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Sophia,” he decides after a while, wiping off the last of the tomato sauce stains. “Either way, we are going to have their middle names be Rachel and Alexander, right?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, wiping a small stain off his cheek. “Yeah, that would be great.”

____

They leave in the evening, taking the kids with them. It’s the same every time - they pretend they wish they could stay longer, but they can’t, because duty calls, and they can’t show up in person for another year. But they always call, and when Cecilia and Alexei are old enough, they’ll start calling with them, too.

Beltone, too, is a seaside country, and so she finds him by the lone dock by the beach the house is near. He’s dangling his feet over the waters, and as she crosses through the garden, the ground morphing into sand, she trails a hand over the monument they’ve built in-between worlds.

A triptych: his katana in the middle, planted firmly in the ground, and Cortain and Callandor crossing it in an X shape, the metals now slightly rusted, with ivy and small blooming blossoms around the edges.

She calls out to him when she’s halfway down the docks, and he scoots to the left, making room for her as they watch the sun set.

“We’re alone again.” Lauren corrects herself. “Well. Together, at least.”

“Yeah, we are,” he says, looping an arm around her shoulders. “Night’s coming.”

“Full moon tonight.”

“Well, if that isn’t fitting,” he teases, looking down at her fondly. “Happy?”

She looks back at him. 

“With you,” Lauren says, “always.” 

So they stay there. And when the last vestiges of the sun have slipped into the horizon, she stands, and holds out her hand. And he takes it, and they stay there for a while, foreheads touching, finally at peace with the knowledge that they will be together, forever, in the present and now, in a place of sweetened night and stars, in place of sun and cathedral stone.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must, of course, give credit where it is due: to Queen_BriarRose/Dryya/simplycec, and any other participants within the Purple Hyacinth fandom who have created Sophia, Nathaniel, Cecila and Alexei, I hope you will allow me to borrow these baby names for now. Additionally, to darling Peach, for starting married!Lauki: we are but hopping on the train you started, and to Rabbit - you’re this fic’s number one hypewoman. Bless.
> 
> So that leaves us with nothing else but a parting, doesn’t it? I am at a loss for words, really. But I’m going to express my sentiments as best as I can.
> 
> Writing is a lonely process. And it has always been one: you can bounce back and forth as many ideas as you want with other writers, and surround yourself with a community of creators, but in the end, you write alone. You pour your heart and soul and blood and bones out into the page, and you become a lone siren on the rocks on some abandoned sea: you sing, and you cry out loud enough in the hopes someone will notice.
> 
> You have all noticed. I never expected you all to - I never could have anticipated your response to my little Murder Babies, which originally was going to be a simple and seemingly niche AU, but as I wrote and wrote and wrote, started to realize I wanted to flesh out a story. A story about two people, coming together and bonding together despite the world wanting to tear them apart. A story about how our past mistakes are our downfall, and how love is our salvation. A story about healing from old wounds and doing better. And you went along with it, you glorious and brilliant people. Every kudos, comment, bookmark, tear shed, flower thrown. Thank you, thank you, thank you. To every single writer in the PH fandom: THANK YOU. I don’t want to sound like a broken record here, but I’m on the verge of tears already, so I might as well out with it now. There are no words I can give that describe my feelings toward you all, but I’ll try for the most common: three words, eight letters. Writing Scheherazade has strengthened my faith in my writing abilities - through you all, what I simply thought of as a quirky little skill has transformed into a strength in my eyes. 
> 
> A lot of readers - early ones and late ones both - have told me that they feel as if I’ve taken them on a journey. Several have also told me they feel attached to the main four as if they exist in a canon that is attached to the actual canon and this one both. And because of that, truth be told, it’s a bit hard to let this fic go. But once a story is complete, it belongs to its readers, not the author. It has been an honor. Especially so to tell you the tale of a young, scared and hurt twelve-year-old who eventually grew up to be our courageous and beloved antiheroine, the Lauren Sinclair we all know.
> 
> I might find the words later. Maybe not. But for now, I leave you with this:
> 
> _Amor vincit omnia, et omnia mea mecum porto._
> 
> Let us believe love can conquer all, and I carry yours with me, always, forever.
> 
> Until we meet again,  
> -Luna <3


End file.
